


let you see my wilder side (if i can see your bones)

by explosivesky



Category: RWBY
Genre: F/F, Hollywood AU, also smut. of course., descriptions of abuse/violence, fluff/angst/happy ending, rock star/movie star au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-06
Updated: 2019-07-15
Packaged: 2020-02-27 00:02:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 107,560
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18727567
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/explosivesky/pseuds/explosivesky
Summary: Yang's untouchable; Blake's anything but. The first time they meet can't be the first at all, not with Yang lighting up every billboard on the Sunset Strip and Blake's voice crooning through the radio regardless of the station, not when every motion of Yang's is achingly familiar and every turn of Blake's mouth leads like a staircase. It's Hollywood, and Yang's spent years learning how to get exactly what wants her - Blake's spent years running from it.If I could, Blake says, I'd kiss you right now.If I could, Yang says, I'd let you.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> wow! the day has finally come! i've been working on this for a long time so i hope it doesn't disappoint. i'm going to attempt to update weekly since most of this fic is already written. for ayana. also for kara who has had to put up with me making her read it 600 times.
> 
> playlist [here](https://open.spotify.com/user/explosivesky/playlist/2VtkW3gIMkWYoY6BW81Qkf?si=kkEwJmmaTl6pcaCp_teEFg), title from the first song "while we're young" by pegasus bridge.

“You have a visitor after the show tonight,” is how Weiss greets her just before they start up their soundcheck, typing something furiously on her phone. Blake raises an eyebrow, lifts her guitar strap over her head and onto her shoulder. Lighting flickers above them, reds, whites, yellows.

“What, like a fan meet-and-greet?” she asks, plucking at a string. Sun glances up from where he’s sitting on an amp, tuning his own guitar. 

“I thought we were only doing that for the second show,” he says. 

“We are,” Weiss says, and doesn’t flinch at the sound of Ilia slamming down on her snare, tapping relentlessly on the hi-hat. “This is a special occasion.” 

Sun frowns. “Special for who?” 

Weiss sighs, but Blake’s looking at her expectantly, waiting for an explanation. She says, “I can’t tell you who you’re meeting. Legally. She’s a fan, so I set this up as a...favor. For someone else.” 

“What?” Blake asks.

“I don’t get it,” Sun says. 

Weiss lifts a hand to her temple. “Okay, look,” she says, dropping her arm, and raises her voice to the band. “Ilia, stop, for like, one second, please--” Ilia lowers her drumsticks, sticks out her tongue “--this is important. Someone _famous_ is a fan of your band. I have met this person a few times through a mutual...friend. I have set this up as a _favor_ for said friend. I can’t tell you their name because we can’t risk it getting out, but they _will_ be at the show tonight, and you _will_ be meeting them afterward.”

“Is this _friend_ someone you’re trying to seduce?” Blake asks with a wry grin, Sun sniggering in tune behind her. Somehow, Weiss is always so predictable.

“You are _so_ tactless,” Weiss hisses, eyes darting to Neptune, standing casually with his bass draped around his back. 

“Aw, he’s over it,” Sun says, waving her concerns away. “When your girlfriend realizes she’s a lesbian, you tend to move on pretty quickly.” 

“Yeah, c’mon, Weiss,” Neptune says, smiling easily. “It’s been long enough, right? I’m not into girls that aren’t into me. This ship has _sailed,_ baby.”

“Jesus _Christ,_ ” Weiss says, flushing from annoyance and not humiliation. One of the stagehands moves around her, fighting a laugh. “How did I _ever_ date you?”

“Compulsory heterosexuality,” Blake says helpfully.

“So,” Ilia directs them back on track, “someone famous is a fan of _us?_ ” 

“It shocked me as well,” Weiss says. “Clearly, they’re of poor taste.” 

“You _manage_ us,” Neptune points out.

“Aw, she loves us,” Sun says, throwing an arm around her shoulders. His guitar digs into her side and she squirms away. “She just doesn’t know how to show affection.” 

“I’m sure her seduction’s gonna go _really_ well, then,” Ilia says as she focuses on her cymbal, adjusts the height. 

The embarrassment’s apparently too sharp an edge. “Ugh!” Weiss squeals, showing through her cracks. “I’ve had it with you! Musicians! Artists! I can’t stand _any_ of you!” 

Even Blake laughs at her dramatic outburst, plucking mindlessly at her strings. “Okay, okay. We’re behaving,” she says. “Relax before you blow an artery or something.” 

“Is that even, like, possible?” 

“It happened on that one episode of _Grey’s Anatomy._ ”

Weiss breathes in and out steadily, trying to calm herself, ignoring their stupid, pointless conversation. She says lowly, dangerously, “You _will_ have a few minutes to clean up after the show; you will all look somewhat presentable; and Sun, you _will_ wear deodorant.” 

He raises his hands defensively. “Sheesh, chill out. Why are you so uptight all the time?” 

“Someone has to be,” she says. “Like anyone else could manage _this_ mess.” 

“Look, we got it, Weiss,” Neptune says, ever the calm in the face of a storm. “We’ll be cool.” 

She meets his eyes across the stage, nods once. “Okay,” she says. Well, she always could count on him. “Thanks.” 

Her phone buzzes. She glances down at the caller ID, turns away, answers in a low voice. Blake watches her walk off, unfazed, unassuming. It’s always something with Weiss, estranged from her family, constantly defiant and rebellious, somehow well-intentioned along the way in spite of her faults. 

Ilia catches her eye and shrugs; Neptune begins sneaking notes from his bass casually, absentmindedly. Well, Blake’ll let her have this one. 

\--

“Any idea who it could be?” Blake asks Ilia in the wings before the show, scrolling through their phones. 

Ilia shakes her head. “Nope,” she says. “Not even a guess. Whoever it is slipped in right under the radar. I haven’t checked our indirects, though.” She proceeds to type into the Twitter search bar, apparently doing exactly that.

The backstage lights flicker as their cue, and then shut to a low dim; their stage manager calls, “ _Menagerie,_ on stage, lights in five - four--” 

Ilia lets out a gasp, but Blake can’t pick up what she says over the roar of the crowd, and then they’re settling into position; the lights shoot on, colored strobe bursts flaring up around the room like fireworks. She comes in with the first note, Sun slamming down on the second, Ilia building on the crash cymbal; the crowd screams, chanting, singing along. It’s blinding, overwhelming, and to Blake, it feels better than coming home. 

\--

Weiss sneaks her in the back along with the help of security. She skips the opening act, waits until five minutes before the show to even enter the building. Fortunately, Weiss says, the entrance is secluded enough that the paparazzi can’t even get a good glimpse of it, let alone access it. Yang only shrugs, following her up a set of stairs to a balcony. She’s long used to the flashes of cameras, the snapping photographs. 

“You really came alone?” Weiss asks. “That’s an unusual way to enjoy a concert. I thought you’d at least bring your assistant.” 

“I gave her the night off,” Yang says. “And I’m not alone. You’re here, right? What do you normally do during a show?” 

“Panic,” Weiss says. “Hope nothing goes wrong.” 

Yang laughs. “Well, tonight, you’re gonna spend it with me,” she says, tossing an arm lazily over Weiss’s shoulders. “Think of it as networking.” 

Weiss sighs, but doesn’t protest. She’s probably one of the few people in the world who’d respond to a personal request from Yang with vague irritation. She says, “I suppose there’s no point in arguing.” 

“Nope,” Yang says, plopping down on a red velvet couch, rubbing the cushion. She glances around the space; there’s a curtain hanging to her left, obscuring her from the sight of the other guests, and a bar sits along the wall behind her. Her view of the stage is at an angle, but she can still see perfectly; she’s not fussed about being close when she’ll get her own time with the band afterward. Fame has its perks. 

“This is your private bar,” Weiss continues. “They’ll come up here when the show’s over to unwind and have a few drinks.” 

“I get to go backstage, though, right?” Yang asks earnestly, looking up at her. “That’s the coolest part.” 

“Like you even have to ask,” Weiss says, rolling her eyes. She’s long past façades. “You’re _you._ You’ll get whatever you want.” 

“See,” Yang says, getting to her feet again and grinning, “this is why I like you. You tell it like it is without being afraid of hurting my feelings or whatever. Which is _also_ why I’m letting you hit on my sister.” She glances to the bartender. “Hey, can I get a - what’re your ciders - Strongbow, please?” she asks, and the man nods, grabs a bottle from the fridge.

Weiss flushes furiously. “Oh my _God,_ ” she says, more mortified at the observation than the fact that she’s dismissing a world-famous movie star. “Is it _really_ that obvious?” 

“Yeah,” Yang tells her, but the lights dim suddenly, cutting off whatever joke she’d been about to crack next; her stomach drops, flutters like it’s trying to stay afloat in open water. She’s not a regular with nerves. “Oh my God,” she says, leaning against the railing, breathless.

“You really _are_ a fan, aren’t you?” Weiss asks, almost boredly conversational, Yang’s excitement a vibrant contrast. “Why?” 

The stage is awash in color again, and standing under the flashing lights, Yang can make out the outlines of four people: Sun on the left, Neptune on the right, Ilia in the back on the drums, and--

“Look at _her,_ ” Yang says in Weiss’s ear, pointing to Blake, front and center, wearing what looks like leather pants, black boots, and a white cropped t-shirt with a pattern Yang can’t make out. “ _She’s_ why. Holy _shit._ ” 

Seeing Blake in-person has a curious effect on Yang, regardless of the distance - it’s like her chest is struggling to spread itself open, like her heart has hands and is suddenly uncomfortable of where it is, where it’s been forever. Something’s not enough. She licks her lips, feels them dry; she focuses on Blake’s, finds them inevitable.

Weiss allows the barest hint of a smile. “Oh, of _course,_ ” she says flatly. “Blake Belladonna, every lesbian’s hottest, most unobtainable fantasy.” 

“Except yours,” Yang retorts, watching Blake’s fingers strum deftly at her guitar, trying not to think about what else her hands can do. “You’re not a very good lesbian.” 

“She’s not my type,” Weiss says. 

“Jesus Christ,” Yang says, enraptured as her voice kicks in with the music, sultry and low and sexy. “She’s sure as fuck _mine._ ”

\--

They play the perfect set, do two encores; there’s nothing like L.A. crowds, something Neptune swears by and not just because he’s biased. There’s a camaraderie, he says. We all know this city. We know how it devours. 

And here I thought I was the lyricist, Blake had replied at the time, but now - staring out at the sea of hands, the swaying bodies, the way people shout along like the music’s their only lifeline, only echo of connection - Blake thinks she has to agree. The vibe’s more tangible here; anything can happen, it says, but only if you choose to let it; oh, touch me or let me go.

Sun dumps a bottle of water over Neptune’s head the second they’re backstage, grappling him in a headlock; Weiss, who’d appeared at the end of the show, screeches at the two of them as Blake walks by, laughing. Sun replies by squirting water at her, and she flips him off, escaping to the tranquility of her dressing room. Ilia’s already inside, running a wet towel across her face, her neck; she’s changed into a different black muscle tee and her favorite pair of torn-up shorts, Timberlands laced up and a flannel around her waist. She hurriedly brushes her hair into a ponytail, clearly trying to stay on Weiss’s good side. 

“Good one tonight,” she says. 

“Yeah,” Blake agrees. “Are you showering, or…?” 

“Nah, I’m okay,” she says, harried, hurriedly grabbing her bag. “Toweled off. It’s all yours.”

“Great, thanks,” Blake says, but Ilia’s already out the door, strangely frantic. Blake’s still too wound up and thinks nothing of it. 

\--

Weiss has Yang wait until the space empties out a bit, fans lining up at the merch tables and piling through the exits, still chattering enthusiastically, singing bits of songs. Yang drains the last of her drink as Weiss comes into view from the stairs, beckoning her over. “Okay,” she says. “Come on. It’s clear enough.” 

Yang follows her obediently, adjusting her hat back on her head. Weiss tuts under her breath. “You have _the_ gayest fashion sense,” she says. “A snapback? Really? You must drive your stylist insane.” 

“We can’t all be lipstick lesbians like you, princess,” Yang says, grinning at her back. There’s something so _fun_ about Weiss; her novelty, maybe, or her complete lack of awareness for things so second-nature to Yang. She says whatever she wants as long as she deems it appropriate, her flair for dramatics rearing its head at the drop of pin. How she treats Yang like she’s just another person, almost a friend, the importance coming not from her celebrity status but from being Ruby’s older sister.

“So what are you?” Weiss asks, peeking carefully around the corner, just in case there are any stragglers; all she sees is the stage crew and continues, nodding politely at one of them.

“I’m whatever is between butch and femme,” Yang answers breezily. “I don’t mind dressing up once in awhile. Like, I’m not into suits or anything.” 

Weiss sighs for what feels like the tenth time. “It’s called hipster.” 

“Hipsters stole their aesthetic from us,” Yang says with conviction. “You’re so uncultured, Weiss.” 

“ _Excuse_ me,” Weiss says, clearly offended, leading her through the wings. “ _Sorry_ it took me until my early twenties to realize I wasn’t into men.” 

“I’ll make you a powerpoint,” Yang says. “Get you up to speed on all the gay trends.”

Weiss hits her with an eye-roll equal to the force of the world spinning, unable to contain her distaste for the current topic despite being the one to start it. She points out the band’s instruments instead - Ilia’s drums are in the middle of being packed up, and a stagehand walks by carrying Neptune’s bass - before they round the corner and are immediately zeroed in on.

“ _There’s_ the Ice Queen,” a voice calls from in front of them, and Yang looks over Weiss’s shoulder to find Sun with his arms spread wide, standing side-by-side with Ilia. “And our honored guest is--” 

He starts the sentence as a joke, but his eyes widen comically when he realizes it’s _her_ behind Weiss; his jaw falls slack, words trailing off, not to be picked up again. There’s the silence she’s so familiar with, stunned and caught.

“Oh,” Ilia says hoarsely. “Woah. It really _is_ you.” 

“Hey,” Yang says easily, tossing up a wave. She’s used to this reaction. “Loved the show, guys. Thanks for hanging around to meet me.” 

“Yo, what!” Sun exclaims, face lighting up brighter than any stage. “This is dope! Yang Xiao Long?! Didn’t you just win an Oscar?! And _you’re_ a fan of _us?_ ” 

“I am,” she says, smiling. Sun’s energy is vibrant, simple to play off of, fit into. “I love your music.”

“Dude!” Sun says enthusiastically. “I love _your_ movies! We watch your shit on the bus all the time! This is _so_ cool--”

Weiss interrupts with, “Where are Neptune and Blake?” 

“I’m here,” Neptune calls, stepping out of his dressing room, tucking his phone back into his pocket. He glances up at the group. “Oh, what the fu--” 

“It’s _Yang Xiao Long!_ ” Sun says again. 

“I can see that,” Neptune answers, shocked. “ _Dude,_ what?!” 

Yang laughs, amazed to find it genuine. They’re actually _funnier_ in their response to her than what she usually gets; no meekness, no shyness. They’re boisterous and wild and uncaring of their own appearances, like they know they’re starstruck and they don’t care at all. “Hey,” she says.

“Oh, we’re being rude,” Ilia says, and extends a hand warmly. “Hey, I’m Ilia.” 

“Sun.” 

“Neptune,” Neptune says, though it sounds like he almost forgets his own name. Yang shakes each of their hands in turn, surprised at the easy turn of her mouth. She counts it as a weight lifted.

“Nice to meet you,” she says, and she actually means it. 

“You know, you don’t _look_ like a movie star,” Sun says as he examines her, stroking his chin. Neptune throws a hand up in front of his face dramatically. 

“Ignore him,” he tells her, “for he knows not what he says.” 

“No, thank you,” Yang says, entertained by their theatrics. It’s funnier coming from people who don’t act for a living. “Honestly, that’s kind of the goal, most of the time.” 

“Well, we don’t have to stand awkwardly in the wings,” Weiss says. “I’m going to check in with security. Sun, why don’t you give Yang a quick tour while you wait for Blake - Neptune, Ilia, you can both go upstairs. Let’s not crowd the crew while they’re trying to clean up.” 

“Yes ma’am,” Neptune says, saluting; Ilia follows him off-stage, punching his shoulder and whispering to him passionately, her poorly-contained elation finally spilling out of her. 

Yang watches them walk off with a grin, and finally turns back to Sun, who’s mirroring her expression. 

“So,” he says, spreading his arms, “this is backstage. I’d show you our instruments but I think they’ve been packed - you saw them? Great - this is the soundboard--” he shows her a device with multicolored flashing lights, various knobs and dials “--but I don’t know how it works, so don’t touch it. That’s mine and Neptune’s dressing room--” he leads her to an open door, and she glances in; it’s a small room with a bathroom, obviously meant for quick changes and breaks rather than hanging out “--and the green room’s here, between our room and the girls’ room.” 

“Cool,” Yang says, her sincerity unmasked; she doesn’t spend a lot of time backstage at concerts and it’s genuinely interesting to her. It’s a life she doesn’t live, hasn’t even acted.

He pushes open the door to a wider space, filled with couches and a small kitchen, TV mounted on the wall. He points to a bowl sitting on the coffee table filled with snacks. “I think there are still some Oreos in the box if you want some.” 

Yang snickers. “I’m good,” she says, “but thanks.” 

Sun shrugs harmlessly. “Wrong call,” he jokes, but they move on. “So, what’re your favorite songs of ours?” 

“Oh, man.” Yang exhales as she contemplates, though it doesn’t take as much thought as she pretends it does. She’s got to save _some_ face. “I actually love your entire album, but my play count on ‘Burning the Candle’is higher than I’d like to admit.” She sticks her tongue against the inside of her cheek. “And ‘First Step’, ‘Lessons Learned’, and ‘Painting the Town’…” 

Sun laughs. “You really _are_ a fan.” 

“I told you!” Yang says, gesturing in front of her, unable to contain her honesty. “I’m not, like, fucking with you or something - I _love_ you guys. I listen to your album constantly. I’m obsessed with Blake’s voice.” The last sentence slips out accidentally, but she doesn’t make anything of it; she’d heard Sun was dating her, hadn’t found the proof. She should’ve asked Weiss about it. 

“Aren’t we _all_ obsessed with Blake,” he says dryly, and stops walking for a second, slipping his phone out of his back pocket; he raises an eyebrow at the message, glances over at Yang and points at a door. “I’ve gotta make a call real quick,” he says, “but that’s the next stop on Sun’s Incredible Backstage Tour, so how about I meet you inside in a sec? It’s a rehearsal space.” 

“Sure, no problem,” Yang says, understanding the demands of fame. She walks towards the door; it’s plain, unassuming, just like the rest of them. She rotates the handle, pushing inward, and steps inside without paying much attention.

And promptly stops in her tracks, the door swinging closed behind her. 

Standing in front of her, with her back to Yang - her almost _bare_ back - is Blake Belladonna.

\--

The door opens as she’s halfway through pulling her tan cardigan over her shoulders, adjusting her crop top. She sighs heavily, used to the interruption. “Sun,” she starts irritatedly, “ _please_ learn how to knock, I’ve told you a million--” and turns around midway through, words falling out of her mouth and shattering there. She freezes in place, fingers still on the hem of her top.

Because it isn’t Sun who’d barged into her dressing room without asking.

It’s a woman, but it isn’t just _any_ woman; Blake recognizes her instantly, though there isn’t a person alive who _wouldn’t._ She’s on the cover of every magazine, her face somewhere on a billboard just down Santa Monica Boulevard, lighting up the Sunset Strip. She’s in a film Blake saw just last week with Ilia, both of them sighing wistfully every time she appeared in a scene, opened her mouth, turned her head. What Blake can’t comprehend - what she can’t reconcile - is why globally acclaimed movie star _Yang Xiao Long_ is _here._

The first thing Blake thinks is that the screen doesn’t do her justice. She’s _unbelievably_ beautiful, almost unearthly, and Blake can’t rationalize the sudden curling in the pit of her stomach or the way the air vacates her lungs; Yang’s just standing there with her lips parted in awe and eyes somewhat wide, blonde hair spilling out from under her black-burgundy snapback, over her shoulders and down her back. She’s wearing maroon skinny jeans with black Doc Martens, and a white shirt with a melting yin-yang print under a leather jacket. Her hands are shoved in her pockets, and she’s just staring, entirely caught off-guard.

“Um,” she says dumbly, still gazing blankly at Blake. 

“Holy shit,” Blake exhales, meeting her eyes. 

It’s not a variation of starstruck that holds Blake bound. It’s that Blake’s suddenly, incomprehensibly sure that she _knows_ her, that she’s met her a thousand times; not like seeing an old friend, but like an ex, maybe. There’s a familiarity she can’t explain, an intimacy. Her heart beats in her mouth, at the top of her spine, pounds against the curve of her thumb. Something unfolds in her, spreading and narrowing, and she’s strangely off-balance as if the entire world has titled a degree without warning. Her heels are different inches. The sky isn’t where she left it.

“Hi,” Yang says breathlessly, looking like she’s still trying to process what’s going on. 

“Hi,” Blake says, inexplicably enthralled just sharing the same space. 

“I’m sorry,” Yang says, forcing the words out, “about - uh - Sun told me I should - um--” 

“Sun does that,” Blake says, because why would she _possibly_ care about that when it’s lead to this. “It’s - it’s fine.” 

The clarity seems to come back to Yang a little bit - her stare focuses, throat closing over a swallow. She slips her hands out of her pockets, lets them hang loose; Blake watches her knuckles flex, her fingers long and inviting. “Um,” she says again. “We don’t - do we - do we know each other? I mean - _know_ each other, not just--” 

“I don’t know,” Blake says, understanding her question perfectly and still not having the answer; she _swears_ she’s met Yang before, outside of films and magazines, like something old and achingly familiar, like music. She steps closer without realizing it. “Do we?” 

“I don’t know,” Yang says, her eyes dropping to Blake’s mouth for the briefest of moments, so quick Blake’s convinced she’s imagined it. “I, um - I feel like we’ve met before. Or something.” 

“So do I,” Blake echoes, fingertips tingling. “But I - I wouldn’t have forgotten _you._ ”

“Yeah,” Yang says, and this time her stare follows the length of Blake’s body, and Blake becomes immediately aware of how little she’s wearing in comparison; white high-waisted shorts and black ankle boots, various necklaces dangling from her neck. “I wouldn’t have, either.” 

Blake holds out her hand, fighting the urge to shiver without understanding why. Her bones ache like there’s a storm; her skin’s a conduit, electric and heavy. “Sorry,” she says. “I’m Blake.”

“I know,” Yang says, but her fingers slip across her palm, curling around anyway. Blake’s tongue darts out to wet her lips. “I’m Yang.” 

“I know,” Blake says. She doesn’t drop Yang’s hand; her skin feels ashen and white-hot. “I’m a fan.” 

“So am I,” Yang says, and finally smiles; it’s sheepish, abashed as she continues, “ _obviously_ , as Weiss arranged this for me.” She’s trying to crack the intensity between them before they devolve entirely; Blake picks up on the move. It’s necessary before they’re nothing. 

“It’s always nice to meet a fan,” she teases, stands straighter, allows her shoulders to drop. “I can probably pull some strings, you know, get you a guitar pick, or maybe even a signed photo. Definitely a t-shirt.” 

Yang laughs, and the thousand pounds of atmosphere finally loosens its knots. “Okay, shut up,” she says, now almost too casual, grinning. “God, this is so - _embarrassing._ I’m never - I’m not usually in this position.” 

_God,_ Blake’s lungs seem to forget their purpose every time Yang smiles; is it oxygen, is it expansion, is it growth. “Used to being adored?” she asks, also grinning. “Rather than the other way around?” 

“When you put it like _that,_ ” Yang says, and finally releases Blake’s hand, like she’d just realized she’d still been holding it. “I’m not used to being starstruck.” 

“Neither am I,” Blake admits. 

“Are you?” 

“Yeah,” she says. “I’m trying to hide it. How am I doing?” 

“Really well,” Yang assures her. “I couldn’t even tell. Now I feel better knowing I’m not alone.” 

“Starstruck,” Blake says the word again, holding it in her mouth. “Is that what this is?” 

Yang quirks an eyebrow; it’s not confusion, only a lack of alternatives. “I don’t know,” she says. “What else could it be?” 

Blake isn’t sure why she says it - her heart throbs the way bass does, blood pumping through her veins with a ring and a crash, guitar solos, drum lines - she’s pushing herself forward from the inside out, there are steps to be taken, there are rules to be broken. Her lips curl into a dark smirk, danger-soaked, and she says, “I can think of a few things.” 

Well, she’s a rock star; she’s used to taking risks. Yang’s lips part, any previous thought spilling out between them, lost and meaningless; oh, now there’s a different story unfolding, there’s too much insinuation. She looks like every risk Blake’s ever wanted to take all rolled up into one. The opportunity throws itself at her. It’s not the only thing. 

“Oh,” Yang says, and when her stare drops to Blake’s mouth again, it anchors there. “So _that’s_ where this is going, huh?” 

“If you want it to,” Blake says, moving closer. Yang only watches, doesn’t move, but the look in her eye, the glint of the light, the way her pupils swallow the lilac of her irises - there’s a sunset and a void - she’s aching, hungry. All according to plan. Whose, Blake’s not quite sure.

“We _just_ met,” Yang says, not sounding at all like she means it. 

“Doesn’t feel like it.”

“Don’t you have a boyfriend?” she asks lowly, last-ditch efforts.

“No,” Blake says, too high-strung to filter. “I broke up with him.”

Yang blinks, apparently taken aback by the information. “When? Sun?” 

“What?” Blake asks, her confusion somewhat ruining the moment. “No. I never dated Sun.” 

“Oh, really?” Yang asks, surprise clear. “He’s always talking about his crush on you, and even just now--” 

“Wait,” Blake interrupts, entertained by the idea of Yang keeping track of their personal lives. “You follow our interviews?” 

Yang flushes. “Shit,” she says awkwardly, and rubs the back of her neck. “I wasn’t gonna tell you that.” 

Blake laughs, steps into her space comfortably, emboldened. All they needed was a breaking point. Yang allows it, fingers reaching out and toying with a button on Blake’s cardigan. “You’re cute,” Blake says coyly, though what she wants to say is more along the lines of _you’re everything_. “Sun’s crush on me was harmless and is now over, as far as I’ve heard.” 

“Well, good to know,” Yang says. She straightens fully up the closer Blake comes, and it’s then Blake finally notices how _tall_ she is; Blake’s in heels and Yang’s still looking down at her. Blake bites her lip involuntarily, and Yang responds to the gesture, confidence taking her side. She says, “Any other competition I should know about?” 

Blake murmurs, “Against you?” and her hand grasps at Yang’s leather jacket. “There’s no competition.” 

_Don’t you feel that?_ she thinks of asking. _Tell me you feel that. Like you’re in my soul._

“I don’t have a lot of experience with rock stars,” Yang says, runs her fingers down the length of Blake’s cardigan, stops at the hem. It’s distinctly exploratory, like she’s internally cataloguing all the skin it’s covering. “Are you all this forward?” 

“I don’t have a lot of experience with movie stars,” Blake counters, obeys the implication. Yang’s almost pressed against her now and it’s addicting, the way her mouth dries out and her veins strike themselves a match underneath her skin, the nick of flint against steel. “Are you all this receptive?” 

Yang laughs once, breathlessly. “Touché.”

That’s all the necessary answer needed; Blake smiles up at her, leans in, and Yang halts on an inhale, barrier in her lungs--

Sun throws the door wide open. “So how’s it goin’?” he’s saying, comprehension not as slick as his mouth. He’s midway through “Are you fucking yet?” when he finally internalizes their intimate position and falters, jaw hanging open. “Uhhhh--” 

Blake rolls her eyes with a graceful step back; Yang takes similar cues, hides her grin behind her hand. It’s serious, but he doesn’t need to know that yet. “Oh, don’t look so scandalized,” Blake tells him mildly. “ _You’re_ the one who sent her in here while I was getting dressed.” 

“Yeah, but I didn’t think it’d _work!_ ” he exclaims. “Shit, Yang, that’s like - that’s all it took? Her with her top off?” 

“Shit,” Yang says, her laughter on the verge of breaking. “This is _so_ bad for my image. Oh, fuck.” 

“You’re an actress,” Blake says, gives her a subtle nod. “Act it off.” 

“Okay,” Yang says unconvincingly. It’s still in the room with them, and there’s no avoiding that. “Sun, this isn’t what it looks like.” 

He snickers. “It _looks_ like you and Blake were about to make out,” he says. 

“She came onto me,” Yang says, shoving her hands back into her pockets where they can’t give her away. “I love your band and she used that knowledge to her advantage. I was overwhelmed. I mean, look at her - she’s so hot.” 

“Uh-huh,” Sun says. There’s not a lot worth fooling here. 

Yang stage-whispers, “I don’t think it’s working.” 

“Stop being so gay,” Blake says in response.

He pauses, his expression making the slow crawl towards quizzical. “Have you guys, like, met before?” he asks.

“Maybe,” Yang answers, dancing around the vague truth. “We’re trying to figure that out.” 

He eyes them strangely a moment longer, but pushes past it when he realizes that’s the only explanation he’s gonna get. “Anyway,” he says, “I guess I should’ve seen this coming. Blake’s always horny after a show.” 

“ _Excuse_ me,” Blake says, affronted. “I am _not._ And even if I was, _you_ have no first-hand knowledge of that.” 

Yang laughs at the obvious denial lacing her voice. They’re still standing so close together. “You know what you _really_ aren’t?” she asks rhetorically. “A good actress.” 

Blake’s mouth opens. “Meaning?”

“Okay, ladies,” Sun interrupts, “as entertaining as you two seem to be to each other, the bar’s open for us upstairs, everyone’s cleared out - that’s the real text I got, Yang, sorry - and Weiss would probably have a stroke if she knew what was going on down here.” 

“Shit,” Yang says. “Yeah, I’d rather not face that.” 

Blake waves him off. “Okay, we’re coming,” she says. “I swear. Two minutes.” 

“For real, Blake,” he warns. 

“Get out,” she says cheerfully. “And don’t tell anyone.” 

He turns and leaves, throwing them a glance back over his shoulder, shaking his head. The door shuts behind him, leaves them to their own influence. They shouldn’t be trusted, but that’s no longer their problem.

“This is all _your_ fault,” Blake says to her, grinning. 

“Why, because I’m too gay?” Yang asks. “Jesus Christ. _Look_ at you. And I thought you looked good on _stage._ ” 

“Look at _you,_ ” Blake says, and licks her bottom lip again. Yang sighs like she’s trying not to groan. “Fuck. This is bad, right?” 

“This is pretty bad,” Yang admits, and Blake’s hit an edge, mesmerized by the confession. “I - don’t know. This sort of stuff doesn’t _happen_ to me. Usually I’m, like, cool, and I can play it off, but you--” she breaks off, gesturing helplessly. “I don’t know. I don’t know what it _is_ about you. Even when I watched you perform, I was like--” she stops again, unable to properly convey the emotion; her inability to translate her feelings into words is somehow unbelievably endearing to Blake, who spends all her time doing precisely the opposite. 

There’s a dull pause; Yang’s eyes fall back to her body with purpose, intent, and Blake feels the pathways of her veins, how they hammer and scald and burn. 

“I just - I _wanted_ you,” she says, gives herself to quiet desire. 

Blake lifts her hands, drags her fingernails along Yang’s scalp, knots her fingers in her hair like she’s waiting for Yang to tell her to stop; Yang doesn’t say a word, just waits, eyelashes fluttering. Blake draws her head down, foreheads resting together, and holds there in a challenge. Break, she’s saying. Kiss me like you know you want to. 

In reality, she doesn’t know which of them crosses the line first; maybe she arches her neck, maybe Yang tilts her head, maybe she pulls Yang’s mouth against hers. Someone shifts, and Yang’s lips are suddenly hovering dangerously above her own, and all Blake has to do is lean up-- 

Their mouths graze the barest amount, not even a kiss but a longing, Blake’s entire body vibrating like the concert is still playing just underneath her feet; she inhales unsteadily, fingers curling tighter, and Yang sighs like she’s giving up, her lips finding Blake’s again solidly, steadily, slowly. It’s the most sensual, torturous kiss Blake’s ever had - barely a kiss, more of a mapping - she opens her mouth against Yang’s, and then Yang’s tongue caresses hers - Blake tugs her closer, and Yang’s hands find her hips and hold, fingertips digging into skin--

“Fuck,” Yang says when Blake breaks it off to breathe. “Um--” 

That won’t do, she’s had enough of words - all she does is write and think about it - she kisses Yang again, desire and destruction slamming into her with such a force it’s feral, needing more, wanting her, wanting to own her, belong to her, touch her. The sun consumes her heart, chest expanding with the space of the entire sky. Yang wraps her arms around Blake’s waist, draws her in, hips pressed together; Blake’s suddenly in possession of the knowledge that if they don’t go upstairs now, she won’t have the self-control to stop. It seems like a crime to pull away, like she’s spent too much time there already, wherever that is - _away._

She manages, miraculously. “Hm,” Blake says when they part, Yang dazed and red-lipped. “What do you think?” 

A beat of silence, a drum before the crash. “I think,” Yang starts, swallows, starts again. “I think that I’m about to be in _way_ over my head.” 

“Yeah,” Blake says, and kisses her with a gaping, needy sort of hunger one last time. “Me, too.” 

\--

It’s more than what Yang hopes for, but not what she expects at all. Hope isn’t even the right word, actually. Sillier things cross her mind, _fate_ and _familiarity_ and _forever._

She sees Blake and it’s not that clichéd of a moment, not like any movie she’s ever starred in, not like any love scene she’s ever filmed; the world doesn’t stop, but spins faster, time choosing to pass them by. Like everything rotates around her and Blake’s just standing there, unmoving, untouched. She’s _gorgeous._ So gorgeous Yang forgets having ever seen another human being, if any even exist. She’s finding it hard to believe the universe hasn’t sucked itself in like a black hole, left the two of them alone in all the empty space. 

The thing is that Yang _knows_ her, somehow. 

Every motion is so familiar - every turn of her voice leads like a staircase - she’s taking inventory, cataloguing things she swears she’s met before. It’s so unparalleled of a feeling, so intense and strong that she gets the sense she’s floundering, unable to be anything but embarrassingly honest despite her confusion. She can’t even hear herself speak. It’s an audition but worse, except--

Blake kisses her, or maybe she’s the one with the eager mouth - it’s all lost to anticipation, the building up and breaking down. And maybe Blake does this all the time. Maybe the adrenaline of live shows gets to her, digs under her skin, settles against her bones. Maybe it’s like a drug and she needs the sensory overload, needs to be touched or kissed or fucked. Maybe Yang doesn’t care either way. 

She’s wearing those hooded eyes, lips red; she wants Blake’s top on the floor, wants her fingers working the button of her shorts, wants to snap her necklaces clean off. 

She thinks she’ll get the chance to.

\--

They’re miraculously put together by the time they make it upstairs; Yang decides to actually prove she can act and her charm flicks on like a switch, completely casual, entrancing, not just like she’s used to being the center of attention but as if she _enjoys_ it. She overflows charisma and it’s almost intimidating to Blake, like Yang’s just gone from Yang, adorable, hot, easily flustered movie star to _Yang Xiao Long,_ award-winning, world-famous actress, leagues away from their own. All it does is make Blake want her more, want to unravel her one layer at a time until she’s only bone, raw and vulnerable and undone. Until she’s Blake’s and Blake’s alone. 

“Aren’t you hot?” Sun asks Yang, bewildered by her jacket. 

She laughs. “Okay, Jersey,” she says. “This is Los Angeles. If it’s below seventy, it’s cold.” 

“It’s true,” Weiss agrees reluctantly. “You haven’t been here long enough, Sun. Give it time.”

“I don’t know,” Blake says casually. “I’m feeling pretty hot, too, and I’ve lived here awhile.” 

Yang’s fingers twitch, so miniscule of a motion Blake’s sure nobody else has noticed. She cooly cocks an eyebrow, knowing that Yang sees it out of her peripheral. 

“You need a drink,” Sun says. Somehow he’s still so oblivious. “Cool off a little.” 

“You’re right,” Blake says; oh, that’s an opening she’d been waiting for. “Yang, would you like to join me? Since you’re _such_ a big fan?” 

“Absolutely,” Yang says seriously, playing along. “It’s not often you get a moment alone with your idols.”

“Shut up.” 

“You shut up.” 

Weiss eyes them oddly, pupils flicking fast. She’ll pull it back. “Someone can get you a drink, Yang,” she says, ever the hostess.

She’s met with rejection. “Nah, it’s cool,” Yang says. “I hate having people like, do simple shit for me.” 

Blake only keeps her mouth quirked casually, walks over the bar with Yang trailing behind. She slips onto a stool and the bartender smiles at both of them. “Ladies,” he says. “What can I get you? Great set, by the way.” 

“Thanks,” Blake says sincerely, and glances over at Yang, resting her elbows on the bar. “Your pick, babe.” 

Yang’s lips tilt; oh, they’re playing _that_ game. “Tequila shots,” Yang says. “Best for shooting _,_ not sipping. I’m not that classy. Six.” 

He nods once, turns around to grab the bottle and shot glasses. Blake says nonchalantly, “Tequila shots, huh?” 

“That’s right,” Yang says cheerfully. “Problem with that?” 

“Nope,” Blake says, watching the bartender pour their shots with a shaky hand, giving away his nervousness. “Just wondering about your intentions.” 

Yang turns to face her, mouth curling into a full-blown smirk; her eyes almost look red under the colored lights, against the backdrop of velvet curtains, something animalistic and primal. Blake swallows to stop herself from snapping. Yang’s an actress; she knows how to get what she wants better than most. “I loved your set, too,” she says, drenched in threat. 

“Thanks,” Blake says, itching to run, run away, run closer.

“I can’t wait to show you _exactly_ what I was thinking about during it,” she continues, and slams back one of the shots in a single, smooth motion, foregoing lime or salt. Blake just stares, caught up in the moment, in the way her tongue sweeps over her lips. Yang passes her a shot. “You’re easier than you think you are.” 

Blake downs it, eyes closing against the burn in her throat. She miraculously doesn’t choke, despite the fact that she rarely ever touches tequila; Yang’s watching her appreciatively like she knows this, putting her to a test. Blake says, “We’ll see about that.” 

\--

“Didn’t see _that_ coming,” Ilia says, sipping loudly at her margarita through a straw. “But I guess I probably should’ve.”

“What?” Neptune asks, following her gaze. “Yang? Yeah, I was pretty surprised to hear she was _this_ big a fan--”

“No, dumbass,” Ilia says. “She’s a lesbian - I mean, we all knew that - but she wants to fuck Blake. Like, first of all, get in line--” 

Weiss chokes on her daiquiri. “ _What?_ ” 

“Dude,” she says, misinterpreting Weiss’s surprise. “It’s _so_ obvious.”

“No, _I’m_ aware,” Weiss says. “I meant - how did _you_ know that?”

“Look at her _face_. Damn. She’s not even _trying_ to hide it.”

“I’m not getting it,” Neptune says, squinting over at them. Yang passes Blake another shot, says something under her breath that none of them can decipher. Sun remains oddly quiet throughout the exchange, choosing to observe instead of gossip; he doesn’t want to blow their cover until he’s certain they’ve blown it themselves.

“Trust me,” Ilia says. “I’m gay, too. I recognize the signs.” 

“ _I_ don’t,” Weiss says, also examining the scene cautiously. “I know you’re right, but I’m not seeing them.”

Ilia rolls her eyes. Weiss always takes the most convincing. “You’re, like, new at this,” she says. “Give it time, Weiss. You’ll catch up.”

“So is _Blake_ into it?” Neptune asks, now more curious than anything. He doesn’t have a place for judgment. “I mean, she’s never interested in anyone. Not since…” 

Ilia laughs. “Oh, she’s into it,” she says, leaning back against the couch. “Actually, she’s way past that. I’m amazed they aren’t doing body shots or something, like, mounting each other on the bar. Adam who?”

“This can’t end well,” Weiss says. “This was _so_ notthe point of the evening. I didn’t think Blake would actually _reciprocate._ ” 

Everyone turns to look at her; sometimes she’s so _stupid._ “Let me get this straight,” Sun says, finally inserting himself into the conversation. “You _knew_ that Yang - _Yang Xiao Long,_ voted _Esquire’s_ ‘Sexiest Woman Alive’ three years running - had a crush on Blake, and you thought that they’d meet, Yang would hit on her, and Blake would _shoot her down_?” His tone can’t be more disbelieving. “ _Weiss_.”

“I don’t know!” Weiss replies hotly, poor under attack. “Blake’s usually so... _disinterested_.”

“Geez,” Sun says. He’ll finally say what’s true. “You really _are_ a bad lesbian.” 

Ilia laughs again from the other end of the couch; Weiss scowls. “Hey!” 

As they watch, Yang leans over, whispers something in Blake’s ear; she giggles and Yang turns back to the bartender, but her eyes linger on Yang’s face, lips still in a smile. None of them really need an explanation for that.

\--

They’re four shots in, still talking animatedly at the bar like they’ve forgotten the rest of the band exists; Yang’s telling her about Ruby, something she rarely reveals - _Rose?_ Blake asks, _Like the pop singer? She’s your sister?_ \- and for some reason, Blake’s now wearing her hat, and she looks ridiculously adorable in it. The room glitters, all the lights blurred. Yang says, undeniably tipsy, “So, do you _always_ kiss your fans in your dressing room after a show?” 

Blake snickers, bordering drunk; she’s more of a lightweight than Yang is, something Yang’d predicted. She’s smaller than she pretends to be. She says, “No,” and then, whispering conspiratorially, “never.” 

“Never?” Yang asks, not expecting the answer. She doesn’t like to place expectations too early; that’s a sure way to a broken heart, not that her heart should even have a say at the moment. She won’t pry that open any further.

“It’s not really my thing,” Blake admits, fingers mindlessly toying with the collar of her jacket. “I’m not a one-night stand kind of person. But I don’t think I’m a good-at-relationships person, either.”

Yang smiles genuinely. “Drunk oversharer,” she observes. “I didn’t expect that.” 

“It’s you,” Blake says, rocking forward on her stool. Her irises glimmer like the stage rush lives underneath her skin. “I look at you and I want to tell you things.” 

“So what kind of person are you, then?” Yang asks, swirling her straw around her blackberry-tequila-whatever concoction; it’s too unimportant to waste time on. 

Blake bites the inside of her lip, contemplating the question. She eyes Yang obviously, gaze lingering on her fingers, her lips, her hair; Yang’s grin grows. _Yeah_ , she thinks of saying; _yeah, they’re things that’ll belong to you._ She doesn’t skip those steps. Blake says, “You tell me.” 

“Hm?” 

“What’s your type?” Blake turns it around on her. “You’re attracted to me, so I want to know if I’m your _type._ ” 

There’s a jealous undertone Blake can’t quite manage to keep out of her voice; it’s a possessiveness Yang thinks she _should_ mind, and instead wants more of. As long as it’s both ways. “God, you’re cute,” she says, resting her chin in her hand. “You’re gonna kill me.” 

Blake reaches out, fingers curling around the sleeve of Yang’s jacket. She tugs once. “Answer me.” 

“Jesus,” Yang says, but she’s smiling. Blake takes Yang’s drink with her other hand, lips wrapping around her straw. “You’re more than my type.” 

“Mm,” Blake hums, swallowing. “And what does that mean?” 

“It means,” Yang says, stretching out a boot to rest on the rung of Blake’s stool, their knees brushing, “that I want to take you to dinner, and then home with me, and then to breakfast in the morning.”

Blake sets her glass on the bar, condensation clinging to her fingertips, and slips off her seat, standing between Yang’s legs. Yang watches her with a grin, hands coming to rest comfortably on Blake’s lower back. Blake wraps her arms loosely around Yang’s neck, meets her stare with an openness Yang’s sure she doesn’t reveal to anyone willingly. Definitely drunk. It’s the alcohol, the atmosphere, the addiction. 

“I know you,” she says quietly, tone fading into seriousness. Their eyes meet the way a light shines in a dark room. “You feel that, right? It’s not just me?” The confession forces a pause, as if something she’d spilled by accident, a drink, a river, a blush. “That sounds stupid. I’m a lyricist. I can do better, I promise.” 

An answer doesn’t come immediately - Yang just sweeps her hair behind her ears, looking at her with a smile so real it leaks its own secrets; it’s slightly lopsided, amused, like she doesn’t express what she’s expressing now very often, if even at all. She finally asks, “What’s Weiss gonna do if I kiss you here?” 

“Nothing, or I’ll tell her to fuck off,” Blake says passionately, and then stops, startled at herself. “Oh, I’m drunk.” 

It’s too soon and it’s there anyway. Yang laughs again, torn between amusement and adoration. “You are.” 

“Well,” Blake reasons lowly, “then I have an excuse.” 

“For what?”

“For this,” she says, and tilts her head, leans forward to kiss her; she catches Yang’s bottom lip between her own, body settling comfortably with every inch. Yang smiles against her mouth, doesn’t pull away - she lifts a hand to cup her jaw, runs her thumb along the line of it like a dull blade - the rest of the world’s gone quiet, soft at the corners. She’s reduced to only the tactile: Blake’s nails scratching through her hair, tongue slipping across her lip, how she can’t seem to be close enough. 

“This is only enforcing negative lesbian stereotypes, you know,” Ilia calls playfully from the couch, both feet now kicked up on the table, Sun hollering beside her. “You’re moving too fast.”

Blake flips her off without even glancing over. Ilia can’t really blame her. She sure as fuck wouldn’t care about anything else if either of them were kissing _her._

“Hey, Max,” Weiss addresses the bartender sternly, “if anything leaks here tonight, I _swear_ I will sue you for every penny you’re worth, and then some.” 

He holds up his hands, terrified to even look at the two girls making out in front of his bar. Like he wasn’t already intimidated enough by the company. 

And then Blake shifts hotly, turns open-mouthed; Yang’s finding a lack of common sense on her tongue, alcohol impairing all their usual instincts: publicity versus privacy, impulse against reason. The band clearly doesn’t count, she decides, and Weiss is probably ready to throw herself off the balcony, so there’s nothing to hide from, no higher stakes. It’s nice, actually. It’s nice not having to pretend.

The kiss breaks with a giggle, Blake finally catching up with herself, and Yang buries her face in the crook of her neck. 

“I’m drunk,” she tells Weiss, her hold tightening on Yang just slightly. Yang smiles against her skin, Blake’s cardigan now hanging off one shoulder.

“Drunk and in love,” Sun says.

“Oh,” Blake sighs, her hands rubbing absently up and down Yang’s back, “it’s too soon for that, but probably.” 

\--

Every step she takes with Blake is a landslide. Blake’s the kind of drunk with an incessant need for contact, the kind where she can’t go two seconds without touching some part of Yang’s body, where she hovers between seduction and sincerity, where she knows what she wants but sometimes she laughs a little too much to get it. She lays a hand against Yang’s shoulder when she speaks, brushes her fingers against her neck, giggles with her face in Yang’s hair. Yang billows into nothing but sunlight, weightless and warm, Blake dripping across her arms the way shadows melt; she’s nestled with her back against Yang’s chest, showing her something on her phone.

Yang takes the device out of her hands, chin resting on her shoulder. She swipes home and finds _contacts,_ and adds in her own details without bothering to think twice about it. Blake’s smile is obvious, her fingers instead resting against Yang’s wrists, watching. Yang adds a yellow heart next to her name. 

“You’re so gay,” Blake says, and turns around in her arms, eyes alight and burning. “Kiss me.” 

That’s an easily indulgable request; Yang kisses her once, sweetly. It’s too normalized for something that’s only been around an hour or two. “You know how many times in the past year I’ve given out my phone number?” she asks. Blake shakes her head even though it’d been rhetorical. “Once. To Weiss.” 

“Well, I’m different,” she says, rocks on the balls of her feet. “You have a _crush_ on me.”

Yang only smirks. “I’ve had a crush on you for awhile, sweetheart.”

“My biggest fan,” Blake says, plays coy and sarcastic. “Did I live up to your expectations?” 

The honesty comes with a refreshing ease, something Blake draws from her as if tied around her finger. “Not at all,” Yang says. “You blew right past them.” 

“You’re looking at me and saying things. I thought that was what _I_ did.” 

“Sorry. Didn’t mean to steal your thunder or whatever.” 

Blake laughs, kisses Yang again as she does so, lightly, casually. There’s a thoughtfulness that follows after. “You did, too,” she finally says, slurs her words a bit. “My expectations were - were _shattered_.”

“Oh, yeah?” Yang says, entertained. Now they’re at a turning point. “What were yours like to begin with?” 

“God, I don’t know,” Blake murmurs, eyes glued to her lips. She keeps falling closer. “I never thought I’d actually _meet_ you. I thought you’d be more - you know. Above it all. Like, untouchable, or something.” 

“Sometimes I feel like I am,” Yang admits, tilting her head into Blake’s palm pressed against her cheek, thumb stroking her skin. “Like I’m too detached, you know? It’s hard to - to get close to people.” 

It’s a funny state of affairs, her words against the girl she’s only just met curled in her arms. “Well, that makes sense,” Blake reasons with a clarity that seems to only ever come from drunk people. “You’re famous and beautiful, and you’re like, amazing at what you do. People want things from you all the time, don’t they?” 

“Yeah.” 

“But not me,” Blake continues, and pauses, backtracks. “I mean - I want things from you, but - things that you also want from me. Like - well - I probably shouldn’t say them outloud.” 

Yang senses the shift coming, adjusts her body language, her grip around Blake’s waist. “And what would those things be?” she prompts, challenging her to them.

Blake’s eyes narrow, mouth curling into a smirk; her voice drops recklessly. Her veins are more courage than blood. “You on top of me, that’s one,” she murmurs, rising spectacularly to it. “You in my bed. You inside of me.” 

“Jesus Christ,” Yang breathes out, brushing Blake’s hair out of her face. 

“Am I wrong?” 

“No,” she says. “No. Not at all.” 

“The bar’s closing soon,” Blake says. “It’s two in the morning. Come home with me.” Anything can happen, she’s saying. You just have to let it. Touch me or let me go. 

Yang knows exactly which option she’s going to pick. 

“Okay,” she says. 

\--

“So you’re gonna let this happen, huh?” Sun asks Weiss, double fisting Jack and Cokes; Neptune had decided he didn’t want his anymore and opted for something fruity. He and Ilia are sitting in the armchairs across from them, now comparing Tinder matches. Weiss sighs, on her third daiquiri; she isn’t one to mix her hard liquor. 

“Like I could stop it,” she says, waving a hand aimlessly. “I’ve never been able to control Blake. Not since she broke up with Adam, at the very least.” 

“Well, you can hardly blame her,” Sun points out. 

“I don’t,” Weiss says. “I understand her perfectly.” 

“And Yang?” 

Weiss lifts and drops her shoulders, and in a rare display of her own definition of impropriety, she slouches back against the couch. “Yang’s none of my business,” she says. “Literally, I mean. Personally - I don’t know.” She examines them candidly, distantly. Yang’s still sitting on her stool, Blake standing between her legs; Blake’s got one arm wrapped around her shoulders, her other hand resting higher on Yang’s chest, over her heart. She’s smiling in a simple, tranquil sort of way, and it isn’t just the alcohol; it’s unguarded, genuine. They seem to be talking casually, like they’re exes picking up right where they left off. There’s a history there that shouldn’t be. That’s all Weiss can comprehend. “I imagine she’s...lonely.” 

“Really?” Sun asks with a frown. “ _Her?_ ” 

The implication is clear: _her,_ one of the most famous actresses in the world, constantly surrounded by press, by fans, by attention, by love. Weiss is reminded of her own childhood, of standing on a stage in front of a theater full of people, her family, her friends, and feeling the most alone she’s ever felt. Of standing on a stage and hearing only the echo of her voice.

“Being adored and admired isn’t the same thing as being accepted,” Weiss says. “She’s famous, but nobody _knows_ her. It’s the idea of her. The concept. Wouldn’t you be lonely if that’s all people had of you?” 

Sun’s quiet for a moment, considering her point. As he watches, Blake leans in, kisses Yang again. It’s almost too intimate in its sincerity, and the truth is strangely on display, not on a stage but in the quiet corners of the room. “Blake knows her,” he says. 

Weiss looks over again, watches the way Blake murmurs something against Yang’s mouth. “Blake’s lonely, too.” 

“I know,” Sun says, resigned. 

“Does it bother you?” Weiss asks, rolling her head and glancing at him. “Are you really over her?” 

He laughs easily. “I am,” he says, no show behind it. “I guess I was kinda like - like what you just said. I loved the idea of her, but I didn’t really _know_ her. And now that I do, it’s like - I dunno. I’m not for her.”

“She’s been through a lot,” Weiss says. 

“She’s sad,” Sun says. “I want her to be happy, and I don’t care if it’s not with me.” 

Weiss’s head lolls back to center. Yang’s smile is glaring in its authenticity; she’s walked on red carpets for half her life, posed for photoshoot after photoshoot, been in Oscar-winning films year after year, and Weiss has never seen a smile from her like this; not in movies, not in pictures. 

“Well, that’s good,” she says, “because it’s not going to be.” 

Sun’s taken aback by the bluntness, laughing loudly. “You’re drunk,” he says. 

“Oops, sorry,” Weiss says, sounding not sorry at all. “That was a little cruel, wasn’t it?” 

“This is why we call you the Ice Queen.” 

Weiss can’t find it in her to argue. “That’s fair,” she says, sighing, and Sun sinks into the cushions, still snickering. He rests his head against her shoulder, also a little drunk, happy to observe. She doesn’t push him off, deciding to allow it. 

“Oh, that’s cute,” Neptune says, and holds up his phone, taking a picture. “Aw. I love this. I’m posting this on Instagram after I decide who to message back.” 

“Let me see,” Weiss demands, holding out her hand. 

“What, the picture?” he says, turning his phone around. 

“No,” she says. “Your Tinder matches. I have an excellent judge of character.” 

Ilia stops him and says, “No, dude, she doesn’t. She’s not into Blake _or_ Yang. They’re like, the two lesbian-crush archetypes.” 

Neptune snickers, opening the app, handing Weiss his phone anyway. “Nah, it’s cool,” he says, and smiles at her. “I trust her.”

Weiss smiles back, sentimentality taking over. She thinks of the way he held her when she told him, how he let her cry in his arms, didn’t judge her, wasn’t upset, wasn’t angry. Blake’s laugh rings out from the bar; Sun’s weight against her is warm, comfortable. Ilia’s grinning at her, lighthearted. She realizes, right then, that she does actually _like_ these people. 

“You know,” she says blithely, swiping through some girl’s photos, “I suppose there are worse guys I could’ve dated.” 

\--

Yang tips the bartender an extra thousand dollars, despite the private event already being paid for. He stares at her with his jaw hanging open and can’t speak. Blake smirks, takes Yang’s hand in her own; Weiss only tuts under her breath, signing for the bill. 

Blake somehow makes it steadily down the stairs with her bag slung over her shoulder, Yang hovering behind her the entire time; she rolls her eyes when she notices and says, “I’m not _that_ drunk.”

“Yes you are,” Sun chimes in from the back. “I’ve _never_ seen you like this.” 

She arches her neck, turning back to find his eyes. “Like what?” she asks. 

“Like you don’t know,” he says dismissively, not bothering to publically call her out. She harrumphs under her breath and doesn’t push it further. Yang laces their fingers together again, smiling, staring straight ahead like it’s something she wants to keep to herself.

“Miss Xiao Long,” the security officer by the exit greets, inclining his head as if he’d thought of bowing and stopped himself. “Your car is waiting for you.” 

“Thanks,” she says politely, and for some reason seeing other people treat Yang like she’s royalty only turns Blake on more. She grips Yang’s hand a little tighter, not that it’s necessary; Yang’s already wrapped around her finger. She knows it, too. They all know it. Blake takes a pride in that she probably shouldn’t. 

“This was amazing, you guys,” Yang gushes, and the sincerity in her voice is apparent, not that any of them would be able to tell if it weren’t. “Seriously, Weiss, thanks for setting this up for me. I had a great time.” 

“Please don’t phrase it like that,” Weiss says, lips pulling into a grimace. “This was networking, like you said.” 

“She still feels dumb because she basically set you both up,” Sun explains helpfully. 

Yang snickers, delighted by the revelation. “What, you were _surprised_ by this?” 

“I didn’t think Blake would be into you like that,” Weiss defends again, a little too tired to really care about her shortcomings anymore. 

Blake smirks, steps up to Yang’s side, and suddenly they look like the two most intimidating people Weiss has ever seen; she blinks against the whiplash, trying to figure out what shifted between one second and the next. They’re both towering over her, but people usually do; it’s the change in atmosphere, not electric but smoldering, like something’s erupting in front of her, a seismic shift in the universe. Yang’s expression slants inward, like dusting off a sign and finding the word _caution,_ and the curl of Blake’s mouth has never flashed so red, the brilliant glare of warning lights. And they’re _stunning._

“Weiss,” Blake says, “you’re really--”

“I know,” Weiss interrupts, finally understanding, looking at them clearly as if for the first time. She’d never seen it, never had the need to, never thought about Yang’s lips or Blake’s fingers, never thought about the true allure underneath their façades, dark and sultry and beckoning. And she _still_ doesn’t, her mind already occupied with various shades of red and a more overt sense of innocence, unknowing; she just recognizes the sex appeal. “You’re both so fucking beautiful, and I’m not a very good lesbian.” 

Yang pulls her in for a one-armed hug. “You’re fine,” she says. “Better my sister than me.” 

“Or me,” Blake tacks on. 

“Your _sister?_ ” Sun says. “ _That’s_ who you’re trying to seduce?” 

“You have a sister?” Ilia asks, confused. 

She only winks, doesn’t say anything more. She continues with her goodbyes, bro-hugs both Sun and Neptune, and she and Ilia give each other a nod; Ilia’s not really the hugging type. “I’m sure I’ll see you around,” Yang says, and follows Blake out the back, who barely manages a wave. Not that it matters; she sees these people every day.

“So?” Blake asks, fingers intertwining with Yang’s again, sliding against her side in the cool night air. “Where’s your stretch limo?” 

She gets a snicker in response, and then Yang nudges her shoulder gently with her own. “Yeah, _right._ ” 

“I’m kidding,” Blake says. “I know that’s not you.” 

Yang glances over at her, leading her to a black car idling in the shadows, windows deeply tinted. “Do you?” 

“Of course,” Blake says, mildly amused. “Like you’d willingly draw that kind of attention to yourself.” 

She falters on the door handle, her smile going soft. She pulls it open, waits for Blake to get inside first, and scoots in beside her. She asks, “What’s your address?”

Blake obediently recites it to the driver, who only nods and starts the engine. Yang’s phone connects to the sound system automatically and plays whatever she’d been playing on the way here, which happens to be--

Blake’s own voice comes echoing through the speakers and she laughs loudly, Yang’s cheeks and neck burning in embarrassment; blood eats up her skin, flushes her red. “Oh, Jesus Christ,” she says, hurriedly pressing pause. 

“ _God,_ ” Blake breathes out, curls her fingers in Yang’s hair and kisses her. She tastes like tequila and strawberries, a fresh hint of spring. “You - you’re so--” 

“I know, I know,” Yang says, shuddering with her hand resting on Blake’s thigh. Blake kisses better than Yang acts, like something she could win awards for. “I’m pathetic.” 

“No,” Blake says, “you’re _hot._ I bet one of your movies is still in my Blu-Ray player.” 

“Which one?” 

“Probably _Known By Its Song,_ ” Blake says, biting the inside of her lip. “Or _The Spring Maiden._ ”

“You follow the _Maiden_ series?” Yang asks, strangely enchanted by the information. “Really?” 

“I saw _Downfall_ with Ilia last week,” she confesses. “I love Pyrrha Nikos, but, you know, I’d rather look at you. Pyrrha’s not really my type. Plus, I hate Cinder Fall,” she adds before she can stop herself, and quickly studies Yang’s expression to make sure she hadn’t missed the mark; Yang only smirks wider. “I think she’s overrated as an actress.” 

“She’s a huge bitch,” Yang agrees, much to Blake’s relief. “We all hate her. Pyrrha’ll get a kick out of this.”

“Don’t tell her I said she wasn’t my type,” Blake says. “She’s very pretty.” 

Yang laughs again, nods in confirmation. “So what’d you think?” she probes. It’d kind of split the audience, due to a bold cliffhanger. “Did you like it?” 

“Depends,” Blake says, glancing out the window as the car turns onto Fountain Ave. “Is Pyrrha’s character _really_ dead?” 

“I can’t tell you that,” Yang teases. “I signed an NDA.”

Blake’s lips curve. She looks like some dark and winding road, threat at every turn. “I’ll eat you out,” she murmurs, straight-faced, and Yang’s heart nearly flings itself out of her chest, up her throat, thick against her tongue. Their driver doesn’t bat an eye. Blake thinks Yang must pay him a lot of money for a total lack of reaction and grins. “You’re so easy.” 

“Weren’t you going to do that anyway?” Yang asks, and pulls her bottom lip into her mouth with her teeth, still a little struck. That game’s won and over. “No. Pyrrha’s not really dead.”

“I knew it,” Blake says, resuming the conversation. “Then, yes, I loved it.”

“Jesus Christ,” Yang says lowly, extremely aware of her hand on Blake’s bare thigh. “Is this what you’re really fucking me for? Movie spoilers?” 

“Oh, absolutely,” Blake says. “This was my plan from the beginning.” 

“So what am I getting out of this?”

“Me. Isn’t that enough?” 

“No.”

“No?”

“Nope,” Yang says. “I want a song.” 

“A song, huh.” Blake sounds vaguely charmed by the request.

“Yeah,” Yang decides, a wistfulness to the joke; she won’t deny the dream. She drops her voice. “Seems only fair, after all. I make you cum, you sing about me.” Blake throws her a dirty look, torn between aroused and amused. “Hey, you started it.” 

The car rolls to a halt in front of a nice block of lavish-looking apartments just before the hills, overlooking West Hollywood. Blake opens the garage for the driver - it isn’t a busy night, but just on the off-chance they’re seen, better to be safe - and gets out at the elevators, Yang following; no need to wait, she tells the driver, who backs out behind them. 

The space is nicer than Yang thought it’d be, knowing musicians don’t always make the best money their first few years; it’s upscale, modern, polished. And West Hollywood isn’t inexpensive. 

Blake finally allows a grin to spread across her mouth, swipes her key fob and presses the button for the eighth floor. “Show me how good you are in bed, and then we’ll see if I’m struck with the inspiration to write about it,” she resumes their banter. “You’re a lot of talk.” 

“I’m a lot of show, too,” Yang says, voice like a bullet, waiting for the doors to close. Blake feels herself slipping. Yang’s an actress, but somehow, Blake doesn’t think she’s lying. 

And she’s right. Yang steps up, presses her back against the wall - she’s so _tall,_ Blake comprehends vaguely again, her heart pounding so hard she’s afraid her bones will splinter against the force of it - and smirks again, one hand on Blake’s hip, the other gripping Blake’s chin. She’s also so fucking _cocky,_ even if it’s partly for show, and all Blake can think is that the devil is real, and probably looks a lot like her. 

She grasps Yang’s shirt in her hands, lips parting. Yang dips her head, meets her mouth with a purpose, tongue darting out and in, and then she shifts her lips to her cheek, her jaw. The elevator dings. 

“You’re so impatient,” Blake says, lightly pushing her away. She has Yang wound up and over - she’ll take it back - not wrapped around her finger but around her voice, her smile, her eyes. Blake digs her keys out of her bag and proceeds to struggle with the lock, the metal clinking off the edges.

“Nice try,” Yang says as it finally slots into place, “but you’re still drunk.” 

“I was doing pretty well until then, though,” Blake says, dropping her bag next to her entryway table. Yang stops, takes it in; her spacious living room, her kitchen, her dining room table, the hall leading to at least three other rooms - Blake lives in the _penthouse._

“Okay,” Yang says, tugging her to a halt, awed and impressed, “explain. I _know_ musicians don’t make enough to afford this off a single album. Are you secretly a millionaire? Are you with the mob?” 

Blake laughs, her hands sliding underneath Yang’s jacket and pushing it over her shoulders, down her arms. “No,” she says. “Well, a little.”

“You’re _a little_ with the mob?” Yang giggles dumbly at her own joke. There’s no pressure even as she’s being undressed; it’s so different than anything she’s experienced before, so novel and new. Blake simply standing in front of her is enough.

“No,” Blake says, absently slipping her fingers underneath the hem of Yang’s shirt as she talks like a distraction. “ _I’m_ not a millionaire. My parents both come from old money, though, and they used to be pretty famous politicians - activists. They’ve written books since then, lecture at schools.” They’re details Yang already knows; Blake grew up outside of D.C. Fame’s funny like that. “I used to live in a shitty apartment in Fairfax, but--” she stops, bites the inside of her cheek, looks at Yang contemplatively, mysteriously, like there’s a debate she’s having with her own tongue. 

Yang says, “You can tell me,” and pulls her closer. It’s comforting, safe. Like she understands that whatever Blake’s on the verge of saying is something she never says at all. “I know this isn’t you.” 

Blake’s conflicted expression deepens, but solidifies, somehow. “I had to move somewhere with...better security,” she reveals slowly, and her heart beats uncomfortably, an automatic reaction to the memory. She’s still so full of splintered doorways and broken windows, no matter how much time has passed. The glass is always shattered on the floor. The footsteps always echo, menacing.

Yang’s eyebrows raise. “Oh,” she says, instantly getting the implication. She probably knows about the need for good security better than most.

“Yeah,” Blake says, clears her throat quietly before the tears can build. “I, um - I didn’t _want_ to move, and I don’t like accepting my parents’ charity. I think I’ve worked hard to get where I am without it. But - in this instance--”

“You didn’t have a choice,” Yang finishes, her thumbs rubbing small circles against Blake’s lower back gently. “No, I get it. I don’t like - think less of you, or something.” 

“I didn’t think you would,” Blake says, and rests her arms around Yang’s shoulders again. “But I didn’t know if - if I was ready to talk about it.” 

“Okay,” Yang says, and smiles easily. “So we won’t talk about it.” 

Blake brushes her bangs away from her eyes with a candid touch, palm coming to rest against her cheek. “You’re right, though,” she says softly. “This isn’t me.” 

“Oh, wait ‘til you see _my_ place,” Yang tells her, grimacing. “It’s awful. Ruby and I don’t need ninety percent of that space. But it’s just like, something all the actors do, so...I don’t know. I guess the privacy’s nice.” 

“I’m gonna get to see your place, am I?” Blake asks, resuming her quest to peel each layer off Yang one at a time. She slips Yang’s jacket fully down her back; Yang allows it, lets it hang and fall to the floor.

“If you want,” she says casually. “I have a pool and spa. The view at night’s really - really beautiful.” She raises her hands back to Blake’s hips, fingers hooking through her belt loops, tugs her closer. The heat returns to them, breathes in their blood. When Yang kisses her again she lets her tongue do most of the work, lets sensuality take the place of sentimentality; it leaves her free, wrought with only wanting. Sex is always good for forgetting, even just for a night, but with Yang there’s a promise of more, a vision for repair: the windows are open and filtering sun, the doorframe without the crack of a fist and painted over. All around her is space she created herself, untouched by the things she destroyed when she ran away. And Yang. _Yang_.

“Yeah,” Blake utters as she pulls away, surprised to find herself unsteady in the face of too many good things. “I think I’d like that.” 

\--

Blake takes her to bed and it’s already more than a one-night stand; Yang touches her like she _knows_ her, like she’s kissed Blake’s body before and remembers every angle, remembers where to put her hands, where to press for pressure - the indent of Blake’s hip, the arc of her collarbone, the dip of her lower back. Yang slips her tongue against her cunt, wraps her mouth around Blake’s clit and sucks - Blake knots her fingers tightly in Yang’s hair, grinds her hips - it feels so _good,_ she says again and again, like she’d forgotten it even could. It feels _good._ Yang doesn’t miss the weight of the accidental importance. Yang crawls over her with her chin wet and stares wordlessly, sadness curiously poking out behind her eyes. 

Blake’s too caught up to think about the revelations; she wants it to be her turn, wants Yang to be _hers_ \- there’s something about the way Yang looks underneath her, blonde hair scattered over her pillows, lips parted, hands clutching at her sheets that renders her immeasurable. Yang’s beautiful. She’s more than that. Blake’ll write a song about this, one day, about how she looks with her spine arching against deep purple and moonlight glittering in her hair, her mouth red like the blood pooling underneath her skin from the bruises of Blake’s teeth. Blake tugs her head back sharply, exposing her neck, and Yang gasps, sound dying in her throat, fingertips digging and dragging down Blake’s back. She doesn't leave scars. Blake can’t remember the last time she was touched and left without them.

She opens the window after, allows the cool night air to permeate the room, street mostly noiseless below. Yang rests on her back with the sheet pooling around her hips, looking beautifully wicked, hair mused and lips swollen, eyelids fluttering. Blake lies on her stomach, her head in her arms, and lets herself feel peace, feel silence; Yang’s body is inches away, heat exuding from her skin. Blake lets that be enough.

“Before,” Yang murmurs, because four in the morning isn’t a time for hesitation. “You said - you said it felt _good_.”

“What a strange way to start off a brag,” Blake says.

“No,” Yang says, reaches out, skims her fingers gently along Blake’s shoulder blade. “You said it like it wasn’t _supposed_ to feel good, or something.” 

Blake observes her quietly, intimately, too long past the point of vaults and keys and locks. She says plainly, “I forgot,” having no other way to frame it. 

“Like you were…” Yang trails off, face betraying no other hint of emotion, but Blake picks up on the implication.

“Not - not exactly,” she murmurs, and exhales, props herself up onto her side. Yang follows her movements, watching, waiting, hand falling to her hip. It’s soft, cautious, careful, like Yang’s touching something old and beautiful, an antique or a sculpture. Something not quite breakable, but has already withstood enough. She thinks of Adam, thinks of him grabbing her arm, pulling at her hair, fingerprints bruising around her neck. “My ex was - controlling,” she says. She’s not sure why she’s telling Yang any of this. “And angry, and aggressive. Things went his way or not at all. It just...most days, it felt like a job.” 

“Did he hit you?” Yang asks. The pressure of her fingers doesn’t change, still the same light caress. Her entire expression opens softly, like she knows there’s no reason for her to be angry, knows that anger isn’t anything Blake needs more of. 

“Not until I tried to leave,” Blake says quietly. “It took me...a few months. He was more...rough, than anything else, like - like I was a possession. But when I tried to leave, he...he lost it, said he’d kill me for betraying him.” She examines Yang’s features distantly; her lips aren’t thin, her eyes still tender. She looks like the opposite of him - like safety, compassion - and that alone floods Blake with an entirely different kind of fear, falling without bracing for impact because there won’t be one. She asks, “Are you mad?” 

It doesn’t come out quite right, the time of the morning and the fading alcohol somewhat impeding her words; Yang’s mouth quirks at a corner, getting the meaning. “Yeah,” she admits. “I’m mad.” 

“Why?” 

“Beyond the obvious?” Yang asks. Blake nods, gestures her on. Yang says, “It’s stupid. It doesn’t make sense.” 

“Most of this doesn’t,” Blake says vaguely.

“I feel like I should’ve protected you,” she confesses, and Blake’s hit with the barely-controllable urge to kiss her again, press her back against the sheets and fuck the emotion out of her, like it’s too heavy, too soon. Like she’s afraid of how badly she wants to curl against Yang and just _cry_. Yang continues, “I know it’s crazy. I didn’t even know you then. But it’s just how I feel.” 

Blake cups her cheek and kisses her once, poignantly; she rests their foreheads together, doesn’t open her eyes. She says, “It’s okay.” And then, without understanding why she says it: “It’s okay that you didn’t this time.” 

“Hopefully there won’t be a next,” Yang says, and grins, laying back down. “I’d hate to have to throw my life on the line for a girl I barely know who happens to be incredible in bed.” 

“Barely know, huh,” Blake repeats, hiding her sarcasm. To her, it’s like Yang’s woven herself suddenly and irrevocably throughout Blake’s entire life; all her past memories should be reworked, rewired. Yang should be in everything. 

Maybe it’s stronger for her, Blake thinks. Maybe Yang’s curious and nothing more, like a faint light flickering in distant fog. 

Until--

“Well, what am I supposed to say?” Yang asks rhetorically. “‘A girl I know through some bizarre cosmic energy’? My publicist is _really_ not gonna roll with that.”

“You _do_ feel it,” Blake says, the relief instantaneous and unmasked.

Yang furrows an eyebrow as if bemused by the reaction, but clears over the second following. “Oh,” she laughs. “Blake, I’ve never had a one-night stand in my _life._ I’ve never even, like, slept with someone on a first date, let alone made out with them five minutes after meeting.” She pauses. “Not that that’s, like, a _bad_ thing if you’re into it, but--”

“No,” Blake denies. “It’s _definitely_ not my thing. And after Adam - my ex - I haven’t really...I don’t like being touched.” 

The conversation stills at the admission. There’s something between them that shouldn’t be, or something that _should_ but is impossible, and it’s all too much for Blake to wrap her head around, too much to comprehend; maybe they just _are,_ and she should learn to embrace it rather than peel it away one layer at a time, down to skin, nerve, bone. Maybe there are things she doesn’t need to understand as long as they’re good for her. 

“I’m not gonna say it,” Yang murmurs. _But I can touch you. You like it when it I touch you._ “It’s crazy.” 

“It’s too early for this,” Blake agrees, and shuts her eyes, her head falling back into her arms. Yang wraps an arm around her waist, draws closer with a hum, body pressed against her side. She’s content to let it lie, her smile fading into sleep and her breath evening out. Blake’s heart beats steadily, and it’s not what she remembers, not the same pattern as when Adam’s fingers were clenched around it - tightening, crushing, holding on - no, no; this time, her heart beats and it feels like letting go.

\--

She wakes up in the afterlife.

Or, at least, she’s _convinced_ she does, because reality has never felt so much like hell. 

It can’t be any later than seven, according to the light peeking through the curtains. Yang’s already awake, scrolling on her phone. She hadn’t tried to sneak out or leave early; the morning had come without regret. Blake can’t find it in her to appreciate that fact now, but then again, Yang isn’t one to say things she doesn’t mean. Her intentions have always been clear.

“Holy shit,” Blake whispers, arm thrown over her eyes. “I think I might die. I think I might be dead right now.” 

Yang’s mouth quirks like she’s trying to stop herself from laughing at Blake’s obvious misery. “I think you’ll make it,” she says, careful to keep her voice low, but can’t resist teasing. “You’re a _rock star._ Don’t you do shit like this all the time?” 

“Shut up,” Blake breathes out. “I don’t normally drink _tequila._ ”

“Oh, yeah?” Yang says, her fingers now splayed over Blake’s stomach, phone forgotten beside her. “What _is_ your drink of choice, exactly?”

“Whiskey.” 

Yang actually snorts quietly. “Figures,” she says, hand creeping lower. “It suits you.”

Blake smiles despite herself. “This is what I get for trying to impress a hot girl.” 

“Well, consider me impressed.” 

“Shut up,” Blake says again, back to feeling like she might vomit. “Me being disgustingly hungover is _not_ impressive.”

An amused hum takes the place of a response as she drags the sheet slowly down Blake’s body, waiting a sign to stop; she doesn’t get one and it dips low on Blake’s waist, gives her space, gives her time, gives her opportunity. Yang shifts onto her knees, bends over, lets her lips hover just above Blake’s skin, the dip between her breasts. 

“I think I know a cure,” Yang murmurs, mouth brushing against her nipple. Blake arches her spine automatically. “If you’re interested.” 

Blake peeks down at her from underneath her arm, teeth tugging her bottom lip into her mouth. “It’s possible,” she says, already finding relief from her headache at the tantalizing image in front of her. Yang’s hand curls against the inside of her thigh, gently guides her legs open. “I’m willing to try anything.” 

Her grin sweeps broad as she slides onto her stomach, fingers trailing over Blake’s hips, short nails digging in and scratching down - there’s the warmth of breath, meeting the inside of her thigh - and then Yang’s tongue darts to her clit, slowly, teasingly; Blake strains against her, begging for more, for a flatter tongue and a faster pace. 

By the time Yang finally acquiesces, after pinning her thighs to the bed and bringing her to an edge so strong she she can only writhe against her mouth and mewl, helpless, she’s entirely forgotten the pain she’s in.

\--

When Blake wakes again, it’s with a dry mouth and slightly less nausea, and about three hours later. 

This time, Yang’s the one asleep, peaceful with her arms shoved under her pillow and her head turned towards Blake. She isn’t even an ugly sleeper, Blake thinks distantly, mouth soft. She isn’t an ugly crier, either; _that_ Blake knows from her movies. Yang’s just unfairly gorgeous, like it lives in her blood, soaks through her skin. 

She reaches out, rubs a hand absently up and down her back. “Hey,” she whispers. “Wake up.” 

Yang’s eyelids flutter open instantly, her body already uncurling as if straightening a coil. Her spine stretches, shoulder blades gliding as she moves. She says hoarsely, “What time is it?” 

“I think about ten.” 

“Oh, cool,” Yang says, sighing. “I’m glad it’s Saturday.” 

“I’d have thought someone like you would have a constant flood of obligations,” Blake says, wondering how many people have ever been granted the opportunity to see Yang like this. Somewhere she knows the answer, knows it’s not many at all.

“I do,” Yang says nonchalantly, the sun peppering patterns across her face, building her into diamond. “But I’d rather be with you.”

\--

It’s a sweet sentiment until Yang’s agent calls as they’re staring blankly into Blake’s pantry, trying to decide what to have for breakfast; Yang only sighs, swipes up on her phone with a teasing wink before she speaks.

“Cancel all my appointments,” Yang says into the phone with a flourish. “I’ve met a girl.” 

A girl; it’s so blasé when it shouldn’t be. She sneaks another peek at Blake, her hair pulled up into a loose ponytail, her purple silk robe, all her skin left uncovered--

“ _I’m your agent, Yang, not your assistant,_ ” the woman says exhaustedly. Blake covers a laugh with her hand; artists, Weiss always says, you’re all so _dramatic._ Clearly that trend breaches borders. “ _I’m calling about scripts, though I’m very happy for you and your love life. Please inform your publicist.”_

Yang points to a box of some sugary cereal, waits for Blake’s nod, and takes it off the shelf. They’re a little too hungover for proper cooking. Blake barely looks like she can stand, though Yang remembers holding her thighs down and her hips shifting against Yang’s mouth, and maybe that’s for an entirely different reason. “Anything good?” she asks, presses the phone between her ear and her shoulder.

“ _A psychological thriller I think you’ll like the premise of, Jaune Arc’s attached to the project already as the male lead - there’s a biopic of an award-winning journalist that’s sure to be a hit with the Academy, so I recommend you take a look at it - and an adaptation of a best-seller called ‘Out of Fire’. It’s some kind of popular, queer, steampunk action-romance.”_

“I’ve read it,” Blake says, taking the orange juice and a box of unopened strawberries out of her refrigerator. “It’s really good.” 

“I’ll look over all three,” Yang says, though internally resists the urge to shout _I’ll do it_ after hearing Blake’s praise. It’s too early - both literally and figuratively - to be so whipped. “I trust your judgment.”

 _“They’re pretty dead-set on you for the last one,”_ her agent says. “ _They’re not asking for an audition. They’d give you the part.”_

Yang raises her eyebrows, exchanges a glance with Blake, whose expression reads adorably impressed. Yang bites her smile into her mouth. “I’ll take that into consideration,” she says. “Thanks.” 

“Is that, like, a big deal?” Blake asks as Yang hangs up, passing her a bowl. “That they’re just offering you the part?” 

“Yeah,” Yang says candidly, not ashamed of ego. There’s a reason she’s one of the highest-paid actresses in Hollywood at the moment. “It usually means they either had me in mind when the project started, or they think the source material isn’t well-known enough and want star power.” 

“Wow,” Blake says, running her strawberries under the faucet. “Well, it was a pretty popular book - I think there’s gonna be a sequel - so the first option sounds likely.” 

“And you liked it?” 

“Yeah.” She pauses, examines Yang up and down as she dries her hands. “I can see it, actually.” 

“See what?” 

“You as the main character,” Blake says, tilting her head. Yang’s skin simmers warm despite the lack of sun, direct heat. There’s something in Blake’s eyes. “You fit her - the description of her, I mean. And she’s a lesbian, too, so - it’d probably be nice, like, not having to kiss any men.” 

“That’s definitely a bonus,” Yang allows, gaze dropping to Blake’s bowl as she settles at the dining room table. “That’s all you’re eating?” 

“If I don’t just like, eat fruit, I swear I’m gonna die,” Blake says unapologetically, lips wrapping around the end of one and biting down. The juice spills over her fingers, but there’s a time and a place, and Yang slips past it. “Tequila. It’s poisoned me.” 

Yang laughs, sits down next to her, spoon clanking against the side of the bowl. “I never get to eat shit like this,” she says, poking at a marshmallow. “And I don’t think a girl who drinks _whiskey_ is allowed to say she’s been poisoned by _tequila._ ” 

The kettle clicks off; Yang hadn’t even noticed it’d been on. Blake gets up again, takes two mugs out of her cabinet. “I’m more refined than you,” she jabs harmlessly, and it’s fortunate her back is turned or Yang would’ve had to work to hide her adoring gaze. “Tea?” 

“Not a coffee person, either?” 

“Only when I don’t have another choice,” she says mildly. “I won’t say no to a Starbucks frappuccino.” 

“That’s a universal weakness,” Yang says. “English Breakfast is fine, if you have it.” 

“Sugar? Milk?” 

“Three sugars, no milk.” 

Blake sighs. “That’s almost offensive.” 

“Okay, tea snob--” 

“Oh, shut up.” 

The mocking outrage of Yang’s gasp is only amplified by her spoon clattering as it hits the porcelain. “Excuse _me?_ ” she says. “Did you just tell _Esquire’s_ _‘_ Sexist Woman Alive’three years running to _shut up_?” 

Blake can’t stop her shoulders from shaking, even if she keeps her laughter soundless. “I sure did,” she says cheerfully, turns and passes Yang her mug, slipping back into her seat at the table. “I don’t mind actively shutting her up, either, if she’d like to continue running her mouth.” 

“I can think of a few other things I’d like to do with my mouth, actually.” She says it so smoothly Blake doesn’t process it at first, choking on her tea when she does. Her hips throb; she’s probably still wet. 

Blake glances at her over the rim. So, she’s not all talk, not even close. “Service top, huh?” she finally pegs, takes another sip. 

“Not always,” Yang says, lips dangerous at a corner, “but with you - for now - yes.” She leans forward, both arms pressing against the wood, and her irises find apocalypse in the sky. “You’re so hot when you cum.” Her voice drops to a murmur. “And you taste incredible.” 

“Jesus, Christ,” Blake exhales, drawn into her eyes, shiver working its way up her spine. “I’m - can’t you - wait? Just, for like, five minutes.” 

Yang pulls back, settles herself into something lighter, nonthreatening. Her smile blooms easily. “Anything for you, baby.” 

It’s said as a flirtatious joke, but Blake sort of wants to hear Yang call her that every day for the rest of her life. Her mind runs blank like it’s out of canvas. There’s a river rushing the rest of her thought away. Yang - _Yang Xiao Long_ \- is sitting at her kitchen table, drinking tea and eating shitty cereal and _hitting_ on her. Calling her _baby._

“I have an idea,” Blake says. Oh, she’s got a lot of ideas - nothing this beautiful has ever saturated anywhere she’s lived; she hopes the air is listening, hope the walls are soaking it in - but there’s only one consuming her, one at the beginning of every other.

Yang raises an eyebrow, pausing as she lifts her spoon to her mouth. “Yeah?”

“You like me, right?” Blake asks, keeps her tone steady even if her uncertainty fuels the words themselves. She knows, but she doesn’t _know._ Some things she still needs to hear said aloud. Sometimes his voice is still stronger than her own.

The laughter that leaves Yang’s mouth is equal parts disbelief and amusement. “Uh, yeah,” she says, entertained. “I definitely...‘like’ you.” She quotes the word with her free hand.

Blake rolls her eyes, waves it away. “Okay, asshole,” she says, and Yang almost chokes, coughing once on the milk in her throat. Blake only pushes on, unperturbed. “I’m asking because I would’ve looked stupid if, you know, suddenly the sun’s up and you got what you came for.” 

“I would’ve left hours ago,” Yang reasons. “I mean, not that I have any sort of - precedent, or anything, but like - I wouldn’t have hung around until you woke up to be like, ‘well, it’s been a blast.’” 

“Okay, fine. Anyway, my point is, I - I like _you._ ” It’s a little quieter than she means it to be, a little more real. “I want to see you again. After this. When you leave.” 

“Blake Belladonna,” Yang says, but she’s turned inwards, masking shy. “Are you asking me out on a _date?_ ” 

“No,” Blake says dryly, and fortunately manages to keep the blush from her face. “I’m asking you out on a lot of dates. Plural.”

Yang seems more impressed by the forwardness than anything else. “What, like, we go to dinner and you pretend you don’t put out until the fifth date or something? You kiss me on the cheek and say ‘we should definitely do this again sometime’?” 

“Jesus,” Blake says, laughing. “Yes. Like that. And I _don’t_ put out until the fifth date--”

“Clearly--”

“--so if you’re interested, at least know what you’re in for.” 

Yang wraps her lips around the spoon again. “Uh huh,” she says, releasing it with a _pop,_ obviously unconcerned. “I actually don’t put out until the seventh, so.”

“Oh, is that so.” 

“Yeah.” 

“I’m sure.” 

“I’m not lying.” 

They could probably do this all morning, Blake realizes; stare into each other’s eyes, bouncing dumbly back-and-forth - and so she does the only thing she can think of that involves their mouths, shuts the both of them up: she wraps her fingers around the back of Yang’s neck, drags her in for a kiss, eyelids fluttering. She tastes like sugar and a hint of mint, the kind of kiss you expect from a Saturday morning, dew on grass and cool sunlight filtering through trees.

“You’re bad at this dating thing,” Yang says, grinning widely. “You’re not supposed to kiss me until the end of the night.”

“Oops,” Blake says, not at all apologetic. “Okay. Starting now.” 

“Or,” Yang murmurs suddenly, her hand dropping to rest on Blake’s thigh, “maybe we can start it...later.” 

Blake quirks one eyebrow, hopes the challenge is enough to cover the desert of her mouth. “Really?” she says. 

“You said wait five minutes.” Yang’s voice is low, her thumb brushing bare skin just below the hem of Blake’s robe. “You don’t understand. You’re - you’re gorgeous. I’ll do anything you’ll let me.” 

It’s a relinquishment that probably shouldn’t drop as easily as it does, but there’s no flash of regret, not that there should be - as quick as Yang is to acquiesce, she also has no problems taking what she wants - she slips onto her knees, tugs Blake’s hips forward until she’s on the edge of the chair, unravels the loose knot of her robe. Blake foot hits the floor, legs spreading automatically, one of them shaking against the expectation, weight of holding herself up. She aches in a good way, muscles deliciously sore and stretching. She drops a hand to the top of Yang’s head, brushes through her bangs; the rest of her hair sits gathered in a messy bun. 

The angle is the most enticing thing about it; Blake looks down, watches her glance up with her pupils swallowing the lilac of irises, tongue flicking out of her arrogant, sexy smirk. So, okay, _maybe_ Yang has a few good ideas - maybe more than a few - maybe all of them, she admits to herself, toes curling against the wood and her jaw dropping in a gasp.

“Okay,” Yang says afterwards, tongue sweeping across her bottom lip, back of her hand wiping her chin. “Starting _now._ ” 

\--

Blake has another show that night and Yang actually _does_ have prior obligations; she kisses Blake goodbye and her hair smells like Blake’s shampoo. There’s something to be said, here, but Blake isn’t sure what it is, doesn’t even know where to begin. She loves it, loves knowing Yang’s going to be out all day with Blake’s scent following her, not like a ghost but a longing. Yang holds her gaze as they wait for the elevator, smile crinkling her eyes.

It’s the same venue; Blake arrives a few minutes before soundcheck, backpack over her shoulder. The opening act’s just wrapping up their practice. Ilia’s twirling her drumsticks off in the wings, waiting disinterestedly; Sun and Neptune are probably in the green room, watching some sports game that neither of them actually understand. It’s easy to get bored on the road.

“Hey,” Blake says.

Ilia takes one look at her and drops a drumstick. “Oh my _God,_ ” she says. “The sex was _that_ good?” 

She can’t be _that_ changed after a single night; she settles with an eye-roll, lips curved against her will. Lesbians, she thinks. They just _know_ these things. 

But she doesn’t keep the details to herself - not all of them, at least - she’s been replaying it for hours now and she’s _still_ not sure of how many times she came, Yang’s fingers working inside of her, mouth in a carnal smirk. Ilia listens with with wide eyes tied to the poorly-covered hickey on her neck and a jaw halfway to the floor.

“She _ate you out_ at your dining room table?” Ilia repeats, other drumstick clattering to the ground. “Holy _shit._ That’s _hot._ ” 

“I know,” Blake says, keeping herself in check. Fortunately it’s hard to get worked up when she’s actively talking to someone else about it. “So, to answer your earlier question - yes. The sex was _that_ good.”

“Are you gonna see her again?” 

She thinks of how Yang had kissed her goodbye before walking out the door, not like _forever_ but _for now_ , future possibility brimming in her smile. “Yeah,” she says, allows herself the certainty. “I am.” 

\--

Personally, Blake marks it down as one of their best shows yet. The crowd shouts themselves hoarse, singing every word of every song; two different girls throw sports bras on stage, and one has _ilia_ written on a cup in sharpie. Everyone raises their phone flashlights for Burning the Candle; someone up front has an app that turns their display into a lighter. _Lost myself to you, not in, I’d like to think I’m finding me again._ Something about the line finally rings true.

She’s digging through her bag for a fresh shirt when she feels her phone vibrate, buried somewhere under her light denim jacket. She pulls it out, taps the home button--

The yellow heart gives it away before the name, renders her breathless. _hey,_ Yang’s texted. _great show tonight_

She raises a single eyebrow, hummingbirds beating anxiously in her chest; she’s momentarily hit with a spasm of fear that Yang’s shown up to _this_ performance, too, now waiting somewhere out of sight. _how would you even know that?_

Yang’s next three messages come one after another - she’s apparently the type of texter who hits enter between every thought - but her explanation both unravels the knot in Blake’s stomach and ties it tighter, sends her into contradiction. 

_i stalked the instagram tag ;)_

_you looked good. like really good_

_like ‘i want to say things i cant say in case my phone gets hacked’ good_

It’s so normal, so modern, so - so _cute._ Blake almost hates herself for thinking that - it’s unsophisticated, soft - but it’s the only word she can settle on without diving too deep. There are things she won’t admit to yet. 

_that’s cute,_ she says. _it felt like a good show. wish you’d been here for it._

_me too. wouldve been more fun than what i was doing_

She’s still texting Yang when she steps out to meet the rest of the band, Weiss shepherding them to their table up front where they’ll be signing autographs. Sun notices the dumb grin stretching across her face as she walks beside him and smacks the back of her head. 

“How’s the love of your life?” he sing-songs. Right, so he’s _not_ totally oblivious - that, or she’s smiling more than he’s used to.

“Shut the fuck up,” she counters, pressing _send._ He only laughs, hands linked around the back of his head.

 _what are you doing tomorrow?_

Yang’s reply comes quick. _you._

\--

Blake makes the drive over the hill mid-afternoon, meets her in the Valley at a surprisingly busy neighborhood cafe called _Aroma_. Yang waits in her car until Blake texts her _here,_ standing on the corner of the street.

“Hey,” a voice says from behind her, and her heart rate spikes automatically like she’s just taken a shot - a shot of whiskey, a shot of a bullet. She turns around, tries not to trip over her own feet and miraculously succeeds. 

Yang’s hair is up in a loose bun under a backwards black snapback, aviators covering her eyes. She’s dressed so simply Blake wouldn’t pick her out of crowd for it - white t-shirt; tight, ripped denim jeans; flannel tied around her waist. Her sneakers are white with black stripes. 

“Jesus,” Blake says, smile unwiring, observing her from underneath her own sunglasses. “You’re such a _dyke._ ” 

Yang laughs, doesn’t lean in for a kiss, won’t cross any lines. “I know,” she says, beginning to walk down the street. “But it helps in public - people don’t expect me to dress like this. Why d’you think celebrities always get caught by fans at the grocery store in like, beat-up Converse?” 

“Good point,” Blake says. They pass an ice-cream shop with a rainbow flag hanging in the window. A man sits out front with a dog who wags its tail happily at them. In another life, Blake takes her hand. “I’d never really thought about it.”

“Besides,” Yang says lowly as they get in line in front of the cafe, “I’m _always_ being styled for shit. It’s nice to just feel like - you know, more like me.” 

“I think you look good,” Blake says, careful to keep her voice down. “You’re not gonna catch _me_ complaining.” 

Yang’s mouth tilts at a corner. “I didn’t think I would,” she says in response, flaring a hint of ego. She glances over; Blake sees the side-eye behind her sunglasses. “ _You_ look good.”

“Thanks,” Blake says, pulling a menu from the bucket beside the door and hoping it hides her blush. Yang steps close to her under the guise of sharing - there are _never_ enough menus, she sighs dramatically, ignoring the fact that there are three more - and presses against her side, chin angled over her shoulder to read. A few other people are doing the same thing, chatting idly; actually, Blake thinks as she vaguely stares around, half the people here look like they could be famous. Maybe they are. She wouldn’t really know how to tell.

They order; she reaches for her wallet but Yang tuts under her breath, hands the man a fifty. “I have more money than I even know what to do with,” she whispers, slipping a twenty into the tip jar. “Let me spend it on you.” 

Blake doesn’t make a show of it, but her blood fills all the vulnerable space underneath her skin; the back of her neck, her cheeks, her chest. She can’t hide that, and she thinks Yang likes it, anyway, if the curve of her mouth is anything less than a dead giveaway. 

“I thought _I_ was the one who asked _you_ out,” is all she says, keeps up appearances. Yang only shrugs and tosses her a wink over the rim of her sunglasses.

“I’m never really recognized here,” she says, moving on, leading Blake around the back with their number in her hand. “I mean - I _am,_ but it’s a local spot, and locals don’t really like bothering celebrities.” 

“Why?” Blake asks. “I noticed that, too, but I thought I just wasn’t famous enough or something.” 

“I think it’s just the culture,” Yang shrugs, spotting an open table near the fence, tucked between a few ferns, vines creeping up the wood. “It’s uncool. It’s something tourists do.”

“Makes sense.” Blake takes the seat facing the rest of the garden, letting Yang have a semblance of privacy; Yang follows with a smile that suggests she understands the gesture and is grateful for it. The number comes to rest in the middle of their table. “And the paparazzi?” 

“Well, it’s not like they actually stake out my house,” Yang explains, slipping off her aviators and hanging them loosely around her collar. “In reality, they _usually_ have to get tipped off that I’m going somewhere, or they have to get lucky.” She sips at her lemonade. “Sometimes it’s an inside thing - like, to keep me in the press and relevant, or whatever.”

“Oh, I see,” Blake says, resting her chin in her palm; it’s more interesting than she’d thought it’d be, learning the curve of Yang’s fame. “So you _can_ get away undetected, if you really want to.” 

“Obviously,” Yang points out with a grin, “or this would be making headlines.”

“I’d definitely prefer to stay out of those.” 

“You and me both.” Her phone lights up with a message beside her; she peeks automatically, turns the device over a second later. “Sorry,” she apologizes, smiling sheepishly. “Bad habits. How many weeks of your tour are left?” 

“Only two,” Blake says. Oh, modern love; her phone’s on Do Not Disturb. “We’re just going up the coast and then we’re done.”

“Do you like touring? Ruby's in love with it.” 

“Most of the time,” she says. “It’s exhilarating, but exhausting.” 

“I bet.” 

There’s a momentary pause while a server spots their number, drops their food off at the table; behind Yang, there’s a man talking about a script he’s working on, networks he’s pitching it to. It’s L.A.. They’re all searching for the same thing. 

“How’d you discover us, anyway?” Blake asks, starting with her french fries. 

Yang rolls her eyes like it’d been a stupid question. “Oh, come on. Like there’s a lesbian alive who _doesn’t_ know you.” 

Blake finds herself laughing. “You make me sound like some kind of queer icon.” 

“You are,” Yang says. “In music, anyway. As far as I’m concerned.” 

“Okay, but _really._ ” 

“Spotify,” she gives up easily, stealing one of Blake’s fries. “ _Burning the Candle_ kept appearing in my playlist suggestions. It’s still my favorite song of yours.” 

For some reason, the information knocks the wind out of her; she pictures Yang with her earphones in, eyelids shut, quietly absorbing the lyrics to the point of memorization. She wonders how Yang feels hearing her voice, wonders if it’s the same way Blake feels watching her on-screen. 

“It’s my favorite off the album,” she confesses, and it releases heavier than it should; she expects the ground to crack, the table to shake. There’s more to reveal - _it’s about him,_ she thinks, _it’s about me, it’s about when chains break, it’s about when bruises heal -_ but she meets Yang’s gaze, lilac of her irises softer than her smile, and Yang knows. Somehow, she knows.

She offers, “I always thought it was the most honest,” and allows her stare to wander. Maybe she senses she’s holding too much in her eyes. “Sometimes...I don’t know. It’s weird to look back and see how much you’ve survived.” 

It hits Blake powerfully, the sky crouching down and sitting on her chest. There’s so much space it’s crushing her. She sucks her bottom lip into her mouth, bites down; it’s been so long since she’s cried about it and yet the tears threaten to spill anyway, the muscle in her throat locking up. She digs in her teeth to the point of pain, and it’s not the place, not the time, but something’s telling her she needs this, this catharsis, relief of absolution.

“Yeah,” she says. The sun’s both overhead and in front of her, burning into her pupils. “Yeah, it is.” 

“Hey,” Yang says gently, reaches out, skims her fingers across the back of Blake’s hand before pulling back. It’s all so risky. “We don’t have to talk about it.”

“I want to,” Blake says hoarsely. Things build and pour and she can’t stop them. “But it’s - it’s not just like, what I told you on Friday. It’s a lot of things.” She finally manages to glance up, almost surprised to see Yang’s still there. She thinks of running away like it’s something she deserves. “We just met, and I don’t want to be work.” 

Yang blinks, crevice appearing between her eyebrows, mouth tucking into a brief frown before leveling out. There’s too much fracturing, nuance, but it’s hard to know where to start when digging up a graveyard.

“First of all,” she says, “I think we should stop saying we just met. I mean, I know it’s like, insane or whatever, but it’s obviously not true.” She gets a smile out of Blake at that, and her own takes growth in response. She pauses before her next sentence, crafting the words on her tongue. “Secondly - you can’t - you’re not gonna scare me off, okay? I know what it’s like to have things you don’t talk about. I know they’re a burden to you. But they’re not to me.”

She thinks of her life like a soundtrack - here’s a moment for a score, for a song; maybe Yang’s on the other end, thinking of it like a script - here’s a line, here’s a marker - they’re what romance wishes itself to be, they’re what Hollywood can’t ever get right. Films are never this human and messy. They’re never this honest, never this raw, never say a perfect thing at an unexpected time. 

“If I could,” Blake murmurs, picking up her panini, “I’d kiss you right now.” 

Yang pops a grape into her mouth, senses the moment closing. “If I could,” she says, “I’d let you.”

\--

They don’t push their luck; they stay for about an hour and a half, secrecy still intact. Everyone’s so busy looking important they don’t bother to notice the actually important people. Yang shrugs at the observation as they get up to leave. “That’s just how it is here,” she says. “It’s a blessing.” 

“Should I do that?” Blake says. “Will it turn you on if I pretend you’re like, just some nobody?” 

Yang snickers. “You can try it,” she says with a lowered voice, eyes glinting. “I don’t mind fucking you until you remember.” 

Blake stops briefly, forgets how to put one foot in front of the other. “Jesus,” she says, cracking. “Who are you again?”

“Walk me to my car,” Yang says nonchalantly. “I have tinted windows.”

She’s parked on a side street; it’s a residential neighborhood, and there aren’t a lot of people out. The risk, though constant, remains minimal. They traipse down the sidewalk, broken by thick tree roots, passing plenty of nicer cars - there’s a flashy Audi, and brand-new BMW - and then--

“A Tesla,” Blake snorts as Yang unlocks the vehicle. It’s black, shiny, and it’d be totally inconspicuous if it wasn’t - well - a Tesla. “This is truly how the other half lives.” 

Yang laughs. “I bought it for my sister,” she says, grabbing the handle. “She’s like, a geek for technology. Plus, I’m saving the environment or whatever. It’s my civic duty. Shut up and get in.” 

It’s like she’s back in high school - she slips into the backseat, Yang shutting the door behind her, and the sound hits like a cue, a snap, Yang’s fingers threading through her hair, mouths colliding with the pressure of holding back; Blake hadn’t realized how _difficult_ it’d been, staring at her across a table for hours but unable to do anything about it, and now - now--

“I know this is annoying,” Yang whispers, breaking the kiss, “but--” 

“It’s kind of hot,” Blake interrupts, stare hooking around Yang’s mouth, her lips red. She kisses her again, desperate and undone. “Sneaking around with you.” 

“Really?” Yang says. Her palm slips lower, rests against Blake’s neck. It doesn’t send her flinching, and it’s a first; she’s so used to the response of fear, used to flight winning over fight, but Yang touches her and all she’s wrought with is hunger - she hadn’t thought it possible to be turned on by safety, and yet - the revelation overcomes her more than the actual tension between them--

She shoves Yang back against the seat, straddles her waist; her jeans are tight enough that their creases dig against her skin, and Yang’s fingers fall to her hips - if only she’d work the button and the zipper, if only she’d drag them off one leg at a time, if only she’d touch her where she wants it most - Yang sucks on her bottom lip, drags it between her teeth, and Blake can’t cover a gasp fast enough--

Yang pulls away slightly, panting; her hat’s fallen off to the side, hair mussed underneath. Her eyes are as astronomical as they’ve always been, harnessing some deep-space grandeur, stars and galaxies and an altered sense of gravity; Blake’s drawn to them, imagines staring at her forever, wonders if she’d even notice the time pass. 

“You,” Yang says, smile lopsided and fond. “You’re gonna get me in trouble one day. I just know it.” 

\--

Yang’s back at work the next day, and Blake’s back on the road; they text each other every available second, mostly dictated by Yang’s schedule, as she isn’t supposed to have her phone on set. She reaches for it between scenes, shooting quick messages and smiling at her screen. 

“ _Yang Xiao Long,_ ” a voice exclaims from behind her, and a hand stretches into view, pointing at her phone. “And how long were you going to keep _this_ from me?” 

Yang grins, shuts the screen off. “As long as possible,” she says as Nora collapses in her own chair labeled _Valkyrie_. “Forever, if I could’ve managed it.” 

Nora leans close, quiets. There’s a mischief sparkling in her eye. “Did you meet someone?” 

“Yeah,” Yang says. In truth, she’s been dying to talk about it. “I don’t know if you know her, though.” 

“She’s famous?” Nora pulls a face. Someone calls _ten_ from the director’s tent where they’re rewatching the previous shot. “Please tell me it’s not Emerald--”

“Ugh, _gross_ , no fucking way - I just said you might not know her--”

“Okay, so, who?” Nora waves her on impatiently. She’s never had the self-control. 

“Do you know _Menagerie?_ ” Yang asks, opening her camera roll. She’d taken about a hundred pictures of the show, twenty more while they’d been drunk at the bar, and snapped one or two of Blake from brunch the day previously. “They’re like, an alternative rock band--” 

“Wait,” Nora says, nearly falls out of her chair when her foot slips off the nook. “Does Pyrrha listen to them?” 

“Yeah. Pretty sure _everyone_ remotely gay does.”

“They have that, like, really hot lead singer?”

Yang’s grin grows. “Yeah,” she says slyly, and emphasizes, “ _Really hot_ lead singer.” 

“ _No,_ ” Nora gasps, waving a hand for her phone. “Let’s see. If it’s who I think it is--” Yang flashes the screen at her, starts swiping through her photos “--holy _shit,_ yes! Pyrrha totally used to have a crush on her when their album first dropped, like eight months ago or something--”

“I told you,” Yang says, swelling pride. “ _Everyone_ remotely gay has a crush on her.”

“How’d you _meet_ her? Did anything happen?” 

_Five,_ someone calls. Yang stops, finger hovering over a photo of Blake from yesterday at the cafe, chin in her palm and smile curling at the corner of her mouth, hair spilling over her shoulders the way night twists through mountains. “Her band’s manager is into my little sister - I saw the show Friday night and met them all afterward. I went home with her.” 

“Oh my _God,_ ” Nora says dramatically, a hand over her heart. “You _slept_ with her? Wait. When’s this picture from?” 

“Yesterday. We went out for brunch.” 

Nora’s stare drops from Yang’s expression to the picture, softens, releases the act. “You really like her, huh?” she says, but it’s rhetorical; she already knows the answer. She traces over every detail, taking it in. “She’s beautiful.” 

“Yeah,” Yang says, ribs tight around her heart, because if she lets it go it’ll run. “Yeah, she is.” 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oops rated e. also this may possibly end up as 5 chapters but am hesitant to change it officially yet. enjoy!

It’s strange, Blake slowly realizes over the next two weeks, dating a celebrity.

For one, she sees Yang _everywhere_ without ever actually seeing her in person - magazine covers, billboards, paparazzi photos. Her pulse skips stones up her throat each time she does and she focuses a second too long, flipping through the cover shoots, crooking her neck and following the posters as they drive by. She sends Yang a picture of her article in _Variety_ and texts, _what the fuck,_ and Yang snaps her one back of a recent feature they’d had in _The Fader,_ says _uh, you’re telling me._

It’s equally as bizarre for Yang, who’s used to movie stars, not rock stars - _Painting the Town_ plays over the radio on her drive to a work breakfast one morning and she actually has to pull over, chest expanding with a pride she can’t admit to. Every show Blake plays floods her social media with notifications, videos, Instagram stories, Twitter hashtags. Yang admits she scrolls through them all the nights of Blake’s shows, likes hearing her commentary in-between songs, likes falling asleep listening to her voice. 

“Is that, like, weird?” she adds, though she doesn’t seem too nervous about the answer. They’re sitting on FaceTime, Blake sprawled out across the bed in her hotel room, Yang stretched out over her own a hundred miles away. It’s Blake’s birthday, and the extremely expensive bottle of champagne that had _mysteriously_ been delivered to her room is sitting on the dresser. “I’ve just always found your voice really soothing. I don’t know.” 

Blake plays with the wire of her earbuds shyly, hopes the quality’s bad enough that it doesn’t give her embarrassment away. “It’s not weird,” she says. “I think it’s cute.” 

“Oh, you think I’m cute, huh?” 

“Shut up.” Blake rolls her eyes, rests her chin on the back of her hand to stop her fidgeting. “Honestly, it’s not the _first_ word I’d think of, but it’s on the list.” 

Yang tilts her head, shifting onto her elbows as she straightens toward the camera; Blake’s got a great view of both her smirk and her cleavage from here, and that’s probably exactly what she’s going for. “What’s the first word?” she asks, blatantly flirtatious.

“Ugh.” Blake drops her forehead, hides her face for a moment. Some days she can’t believe this is real; it plays like a fever dream, art blending into reality. “ _Devastatingly sexy,_ ” she says into her pillow, picks herself up again.

“That’s two words.” 

“I didn’t know you could count.”

Yang bursts out laughing, delighted by the jab; she rarely gets it back as good as she gives it, mostly because everyone else is too afraid to try. “Asshole.” 

Blake grins, legs kicking idly behind her. “What’s mine?” 

“Hm?” 

“My word,” she says. “When you think about me.” 

“I don’t think about you,” Yang teases. “You’re _never_ on my mind.” 

Oh, but the opposite is true, that’s why it’s a joke; Blake feels every nerve fire underneath her skin, every flushing vein. _You’re always on my mind._ It should be more frightening than it is, but all Blake unearths is a serene, simple sort of certainty. 

“Uh huh,” she says, doesn’t fall for it. “What is it _really?_ ”

Yang only tuts, unable to deny her anything for long. “Belladonna,” she says, “as if a single word could sum _you_ up,” and even through a pixelated, medium-quality FaceTime call, her open adoration sends Blake’s heart running home.

\--

Their final show is in Seattle on a Friday night. She’s somewhere untethered between the sky and earth, like she’s living in the lunar-shadow of the horizon, but it’s been two months of being on the road with only a brief reprieve at her own apartment and she’s wired, strung-out. She’ll miss it, but at the same time, she’s moving on. She has much more to look forward to. 

There’s a sense of pride from the audience: _last show of the tour_ , Sun says into the mic, and they scream so loudly the band has to postpone their intro for several seconds; he glances over at Blake underneath the blinding stage lights and grins. 

When she sings _Burning the Candle_ , she’s so happy she forgets it ever even hurt.

\--

“Blake,” Weiss says, catching her the second she walks backstage after the encore, “I actually need to talk to you about something for a minute.” 

She passes Blake a towel, allowing her to at least wipe the sweat from her forehead; her hair’s in a ponytail, coming loose. She tightens it briefly, hates feeling strands sticking to the back of her neck. “Sure,” Blake says, too high up for the crash of anxiety.

She runs the towel over her shoulders, under her muscle tee, her neck; she’s hot in her black jeans, her boots with silver studs around the heel. Weiss leads her towards her dressing room, knocks once on the door as if checking to make sure it’s empty, and then opens it slowly. 

Blake’s still so keyed from the show it takes her a solid few seconds to process what she’s seeing, but when she does--

“Hey,” Yang greets easily, grinning at her adorably stunned, blank expression. “Great show tonight.”

Blake parts her lips, feels them crack, dry. Her tongue slips out automatically. “ _Yang?_ ” 

Yang’s eyes widen; she looks suddenly nervous. “Oh my _God,_ ” she breathes out. “You, like, _know_ me? This is crazy, I’m _such_ a huge fan--” 

The absurdity of the remark overturns the situational confusion; Blake finds her laughter falling, her brain still stuck somewhere in limbo. Yang’s here. She’s _here._ “Shut up,” she says, steps forward and flings herself into Yang’s arms. “What are you _doing_ here?”

Yang’s smile softens, wrapping Blake up in an embrace. She doesn’t care about sweat, doesn’t care that the back of Blake’s tank is damp or that her hair’s still sticking to her skin - she pulls her close, drops her head to the crook of Blake’s neck. 

The door shuts softly behind them, and neither of them notice. 

“I was bored,” Yang says. “I figured you’d be the quickest way to relieve that.” 

Blake laughs, leans back to look at her, palms her cheeks. Yang’s eyes color her the same way the reds and blues criss-cross over the stage, blurring and blending. Touching her, touching her - Blake can’t stop her grin unfurling, can’t stop her heart bumping around her throat like a waterslide, can’t stop herself from kissing her. She brings Yang’s mouth down to hers, fingers slipping through her hair, presses impossibly close; she sucks on Yang’s bottom lip, lets her tongue swipe, lets her teeth sink. Yang laughs in her throat, low and amused. 

“What?” Blake says.

“You really _are_ always horny after a show,” Yang says, and kisses her again.

“Whatever.” Her body burns heat, salt-like and electric; _God,_ Yang’s more gorgeous up-close than she is on any screen, on any red carpet. “What are you _actually_ doing here?” 

Yang shifts sheepish. “I missed you,” she admits softly, and the entire show Blake’s just played can’t even compare to the rush of the confession. Blake cups her face in her hands again, thumbs stroking her cheekbones. “Like - it’s so corny, and we talked so often, but I really did. Plus I missed your birthday, _and_ it’s your last show - I figured my presence would be better than anything I could buy you.” 

Blake laughs at the egotistic humor, but ultimately the sincerity wins out. “I missed you,” she says, too warm and ribboned, and the eye contact they maintain is more like affection than sex. “These were the longest two weeks of my life.”

Apparently overcome, Yang touches her lips gently to Blake’s forehead. She’s the height for it. “Yeah,” she says. “I, um - I didn’t have my assistant book a hotel or anything. I figured--”

“Duh,” Blake cuts her off, lowers her hands to Yang’s, fingers twining like thread. “You’re coming with me. Now.” 

\--

Weiss speaks to the front desk manager while they wait in the car and he jumps at the chance to serve as escort, allowing them entry through a private door and elevator. Yang’s hair is tucked under the hood of her green jacket, and despite the fact that it’s midnight, she keeps her sunglasses on; it’s not exactly inconspicuous, she says, but you’d be surprised how easily a pair can disguise you. Better to be suspicious than sorry.

Blake’s never had these types of privileges, never had to go to these necessary lengths - not yet, anyway - back doors, tinted windows, discretion to the point of iron bars. She feels as if she should be sewing armor into her skin. 

But it’s not needed when they’re alone - Yang pushes her against the back of the door the moment it closes, descends upon her like the wide light at the mouth of a cave, like a raging wildfire in a windstorm; any restraint she’d held at the venue is gone, lips catching Blake’s desperately, tongue brushing through her mouth, fingertips anchored into her hips. People always talk about _burning with desire, drowning in want_ \- to Blake, it’s neither of those things - it’s _rising,_ it’s _consuming,_ it’s so high it implodes and becomes nothing - she’s only composed of nerve endings, stripped bare and starved - Yang’s hands map her ribcage - she thumbs a nipple through Blake’s shirt, a teasing, a spark--

“You’re so fucking _hot,_ ” Yang says against her mouth, kind of like it’s destroying her. “Watching you on stage - I love your music, but I almost couldn’t wait for it to be over, just so I could touch you.” 

“If I’d known you were there,” Blake murmurs, “I would’ve let you touch me before I even went on.” 

Yang grins, tugs on the hem of her shirt. “Too bad it’s only the third date,” she teases lowly, and captures Blake’s bottom lip between hers, scrapes it gently with her teeth. “Guess neither of us will be putting out tonight.” 

“Shut up,” Blake says roughly, her fingers already working the button of Yang’s jeans. 

\--

Yang takes pictures of her awash in dim hotel room lighting, stark white sheets pulled up over her mouth, golden eyes brighter than the reflection of the moon. And then Yang drags the sheet down, reveals her smirk, reveals the peppering of bruises on her collarbone, reveals her chest and each indent of her ribs, her navel, the hint of the curve of her hips. She only watches with a wicked glint in her stare, raises her arms overhead, lets Yang take whatever pictures she wants.

She deletes all of them but one - it’s less scandalous, Blake laughing with the back of her hand over her lips, expression half-hidden and secret - but she’s content with the knowledge that they were there at all, even for a moment. That they were hers.

\--

The band’s flight is slightly later in the morning - they leave the bus to make its own journey back - and neither of them had really bothered to unpack to begin with, so there’s no early rush. They stretch leisurely in bed, only finding skin, and Blake slips two fingers into her, curls them until she snaps her silence, gasping into the still air. Blake watches her face, the imprints her teeth leave against her bottom lip, eyelashes fluttering. Nobody else gets to see this. Nobody.

They’re finally dressed; Blake unzips a small pocket of her backpack. “I want you to have something,” she says, presses a guitar pick into Yang’s palm. It’s a purple _Fender,_ pattern like cut gemstones, shining. “I used this pick the entire tour. I was going to save it as like a - as a reminder. A reminder that we did it, that I made it. But I want you to have it instead.” 

“Why?” Yang asks, awed, turning it over in her hands. She touches it like a precious metal, something with a weight and a value beyond sentimental. 

“Because it’s important to me,” Blake says, tucks a strand of hair behind her ear, loose from her ponytail. “And you’re important to me, too.” 

Yang smiles. The room reads empty and quiet, transitional. They’re both so used to leaving and being left. She kisses Blake’s forehead again, and Blake thinks it’s not so bad, being smaller. 

“Oh, baby,” she sighs, and Blake rips herself wings, “I adore you.”

\--

 _okay so,_ Yang texts when Blake’s flight has landed, _proposition_

_I’m definitely listening..._

_i have a work dinner tonight but do you want to come over after?_

_hm...no._

_bitch._

_;) what’s your address and what time_

\--

Yang lives in the Hills, so it really shouldn’t shock Blake how huge her house is. It does anyway. 

“Holy shit,” Blake says when Yang opens the door, though she’s not sure if that’s in response to the grandeur or Yang herself. She’s wearing a red-and-black flannel with the sleeves rolled up to her elbows over a black tank with the _Patrón_ logo in white, and black denim shorts; she’s barefoot, hair wild and loose around her shoulders. 

“Same to you,” Yang says, who apparently interprets the sentiment to her appearance and not the house. She’s definitely right. Nothing compares to Yang; not any millionaire’s mansion, not any patch of that brilliant open sky. She crooks a finger, lips in a playful half-grin. “Come here, beautiful.” 

Anywhere, Blake thinks of saying. I’d go anywhere you asked me to. 

It’s more modern, like most of the property around her, thickly gated with a strangely large number of windows and an open floor plan. Her infinity pool stretches as if reaching for the ocean on the other side of the skyline. Downtown glitters in the distance, iconic and untouchable, more of a concept than a place they ever actually visit. 

“I told you,” Yang says, standing beside her on the deck, leaning against the railing. “I don’t need ninety percent of this space.” 

“No,” Blake agrees, staring out at the city sprawing beneath them, streets winding like gossamer, lights sparkling as if just a jewelry box, “but _God,_ damn, is the view worth it.” 

“Yeah,” Yang says, looking directly at her with a smile. “It is.” 

\--

Yang slides her flannel off her arms, tosses it over one of her patio lounge chairs, and her tank top starts to follow suit; Blake’s torn easily away from the skyline, following the trail of Yang’s fingers up her ribcage instead, counting every bone revealed. “What are you doing?” 

Yang shoots her a look, mischievous and purposeful. “The spa’s on,” she says. 

Blake’s smart enough to pick up the rest; they’ve seen each other naked too many times for her to fumble over a statement as inconsequential as _but I didn’t bring a swimsuit._ “How convenient.” 

“It’s salt water,” Yang adds, stepping out of her shorts, and she’s left standing in her underwear in front of Blake. She’s not shy about it; she’s persuasive. “It feels great on your skin.” 

“I don’t really think I needed much more convincing,” Blake says as Yang unhooks her bra, and she tugs her own shirt overhead, “but I’m _not_ getting my hair wet.” 

“Fine,” Yang says, a game she’s playing into. She winks. “You look hot with your hair up.” 

She’s right, though - the water feels incredible, almost silky, and Blake sinks into it with her neck resting back against the stone, jets massaging her lower back. Yang’s crouched in the middle of it, only her head visible above the water; her own hair’s up in a lazy bun.

“I never use this thing enough,” she says dreamily, rolling her neck on her shoulders; the heat easily loosens up her muscles. “Every time I do, though, it’s like - I could live in it.”

“Why don’t you?” Blake asks, looking as relaxed as Yang feels. “Use it more?”

“It’s not as nice when I’m alone.” She shrugs over _alone_ , pretends it bothers her less than it does. “I use it when I have friends over, but we’re all so busy - I don’t know. My inner circle isn’t _quite_ as big as the media makes it out to be.” 

Bubbles dart between Blake’s fingers as she listens; Yang rests a hand against her knee, more for stability purposes than seductive ones. She doesn’t seem to mind. “So who’s in this _inner circle_ of yours?” 

“You.” 

“And who else?” 

“That’s it. Just you.”

Blake splashes her lightly, laughs. “I thought I was dating a world-famous celebrity,” she says drolly, “not some recluse who holes herself up in her twelve-million dollar mansion and watches YouTube videos of my shows on repeat.”

Yang’s jaw drops in mock-offense; it’s not true, but it’s such a savage remark that she can’t help her denial of it. “ _Excuse_ me,” she says, slides up and in, catches Blake’s mouth in a kiss as if that’s proof enough of status; Blake lifts a hand, fingers automatically spreading against her jaw. Yang pulls back, steam rising between them. “My mansion wasn’t _twelve million dollars._ It was twenty.” 

“Shut up,” Blake says, but she’s still grinning against Yang’s mouth. “You’re so stupid.”

“I went to Harvard.” 

“No you didn’t. I’ve read your Wikipedia, Yang. You dropped out of NYU at nineteen for the starring role in _Atlas._ ” 

“Wait.” Yang leans in further away, stares at her oddly, intensely. Blake mirrors the look, stitching hers up in confusion. “You can read?”

Her laughter’s more breathless this time, exasperated; she’s a collision of aloof and absorbed, not wanting to give herself away so early in the night. Well, Yang’s already gone. Blake says, “I hate that I find you so funny.” 

“Oh, please.” Yang kisses her again, but it’s difficult to do over her sweeping grin. “You were _bored_ before I came along. Admit it.” 

She’s barely conscious of the fact that they’re both naked anymore - there are more important things; the sound of Blake’s laughter, the playful tilt of her mouth, the ring of light reflected in her eyes - and there’s something freeing about it, skin without sex or expectation. 

Blake sighs, but she’s still smiling. “ _Bored_ is one word for it,” she says, lifts a hand, brushes Yang’s damp bangs away from her forehead. Her adoration is a little too clear, but it’s hard when there’s nothing left to hide behind. “I don’t know. Guarded, maybe.” She wets her lips at the confession. “I feel like - nobody’s understood me before you.” 

“I feel like that, too,” Yang admits, offering the agreement before Blake gets the chance for nervousness. “I mean - realistically, like, I know I have friends who understand me, but - it’s different with you.” She takes Blake’s hand in her own, holds it against her cheek; the pressure of her palm is grounding, calming. All of Blake is like that to her; something that ties her to the earth. 

“You make me want to tell you everything,” Blake murmurs, sinking into her eyes. Yang’s slowly drifting closer. “And I think - that makes it easier to _feel_ everything, too.” 

“Oh?” Yang switches code, goes to mischievous; there’s an intensity she’s not trying to disperse, only alleviate slightly. “And what’re you feeling, Belladonna?” 

Blake draws her in again, kisses her nicely - it’s an answer - and then kisses her more deeply, tongue slipping across her bottom lip - that’s a question. Yang parts her lips, meets her tongue halfway, and _now_ she’s aware of skin and sex and expectation, now she’s the uncurved edge of a craving - Blake’s fingers are in her hair - her hands are on Blake’s thighs - Blake whispers, “Turned on.” 

Oh, what else is new between them; Yang smirks. “Well,” she says throatily, trailing up Blake’s ribcage like she’s taking inventory, fingers spreading, brushing a nipple, “you can fuck me if you want to.” 

Blake swallows, shudders against her. She says, “I’m thinking of doing something _else,_ actually,” and her voice glitters as if drenched in moonlight. “Sit on the edge.” 

Yang raises an eyebrow, understanding immediately. “Bold,” she says, and lifts herself out of the water with the devil resting in the corners of her mouth. She isn’t shy. She spreads her legs, leans back on her hands, waits cockily. 

“Jesus,” Blake says, hands sliding across her skin to her hips, her lower back, and then settling on her knees in the water. It’s intoxicating, exhilarating - there’s so much wide open space - the Los Angeles skyline glimmers like the lights of flashing cameras - it feels more risky than it is, more exposed. And it’s so much hotter. 

Yang stares down at her, smirk still in place, but it falls the second Blake’s tongue flicks out and flattens. She resists the instinct to tilt her head back and find the stars; she sees too many of those, and nothing compares to Blake’s head between her thighs, her mouth working--

She curls one hand against Blake’s head gently, lets her lips part and cuts on a gasp; Blake sucks on her clit, smiles at the sound of her name spilled desperately, shamelessly; steam is still rising from her skin, and one of Blake’s hands digs into the inside of her thigh, trails up, two fingers slipping straight into her-- 

“Oh, fuck,” Yang breathes out, trembling against the cool night air against her wet skin. Blake fucks her slowly, leisurely, more focused on her tongue. “Blake--”

Blake hums over her clit, and Yang’s eyelids flutter shut without control, stars and city lights popping behind them - so far away, too close - her own voice trips out of her mouth, warmer than the steam rising from the water - she knots her fingers through Blake’s hair, silky and damp - Blake’s laughing, mouth open with her tongue still flat, and Yang hooks a leg around her back, spine arching insistently as she convulses--

She sinks into the water, half onto Blake’s lap, shaking deliciously with her body made of fault lines. It’s impossible to tell the difference between sweat and salt, and she presses her lips to the indent of Blake’s neck, kisses up her jaw, tastes herself on Blake’s mouth. 

“I’ve never _wanted_ someone so much,” Blake admits, breath ghosting across her lips. “Every time I’m close to you…”

“Well,” Yang murmurs, fingers snaking their way between Blake’s legs, “at least it’s mutual.”

\--

“So, seriously,” Blake says thirty minutes later, nestled in a fluffy white bathrobe of Yang’s and driving a spoon into a container of chocolate ice-cream on the marble kitchen counter. The floor’s warm beneath her feet; of course it’s heated. “It’s Hollywood. What do you normally do on a Saturday night? Cocaine?”

Yang snorts into a laugh, the probe unexpected and outrageous. “Yeah, _right._ ” 

“Heroin?” 

“Sometimes.” 

It’s a clear lie, but Blake feels the need to call her out anyway. “Shut up,” she says, corner of her mouth rising. “You do _not._ ” 

“Of course I don’t.” Yang rewards her with a snicker; she’ll let the actual truth slip guiltlessly. “Weed, if I had to pick a drug. And only if Nora’s over - her boyfriend Ren’s kind of a stoner.” 

“Lie Ren?” Blake says, and Yang nods, lips wrapped around her own spoon. She forgets about _fame_ when Blake’s around, forgets the intrigue of personas dropped. “But you aren’t really into it,” she interprets.

“Nah.” Yang trails over the swirling grey lines in the white marble, sets her elbows between cracks. She’s in a similar bathrobe, but it’s an almost offensive shade of orange, and she _still_ manages to look good despite contrasting hideously with her own furniture. Blake’ll unpack that later. “I know it’s like, dumb, because Ruby’s twenty-two now, but - I don’t know. I still feel like I need to set a good example for her.” 

“That’s not dumb,” Blake disagrees mildly, licking the chocolate from her bottom lip. A bead of melting ice-cream starts to crawl down the side of its container, but neither of them make a move to stop it. “I mean, you basically raised her, right? I think it makes sense.” 

“Yeah,” Yang says, her secrets stacking like a library and teetering. She wants to tell Blake everything, too. It’d be a surprise to find a feeling that wasn’t mutual between them. “Our dad wasn’t a _bad_ father, like at all, but…” she pauses, her tongue pressing against the inside of her cheek. “You know how I told you our mom died?” 

“Yeah.” 

“ _Ruby’s_ mom died,” she reveals, and her spoon clanks as she rests it on the counter. Stains are simple to remove; what they’re talking about isn’t. “ _My_ mom left him after I was born.” 

Blake blinks at her, expression lurching into disbelief as if she’s unable to imagine someone _leaving_ Yang. She sets her own spoon down, following. “Why?” 

“She didn’t want me, I guess,” Yang says, line of her mouth breaking. “I don’t know, and he doesn’t like talking about her. I can’t blame him, but...still. Sometimes it’d be nice to have answers.” 

“Yeah,” Blake says, drops her eyes to the chocolate still melting around the rim. “I know what you mean.” 

Lines to cross, boundaries to push - Blake speaks like there’s been a death in the family, only she’s talking about herself, a past version buried somewhere in the unmarked desert who never had a funeral. It’s not a time for digging. Yang’s more tactful than that. 

“Here’s a question you can answer,” Yang says, nothing about her an act. Blake arcs an eyebrow into a point. “What’s your favorite color?” 

The echo of her laughter is almost unsettling in such a large, empty space; it’s an unexpected question, so simplistic. Sometimes, Yang’s found, that’s all it takes for drive-ins and breakthroughs: the least amount of resistance. She has a hunch, anyway, but she’d never _asked._

“Purple,” Blake says, and yep, bingo. She puts the lid back on the ice-cream carton like she’s also sealing up their histories. “Yours?” 

“Yellow.” 

“I like that,” Blake says fondly, and any lasting weight packs itself up. “It suits you.” 

“So does yours.” Purple. Like the guitar pick. Maybe she’ll paint a room, a house, a world. “I realized I’d never asked you that and it’s like, _basic_ info _._ Can’t date someone without knowing their favorite color.” 

Blake’s laugh takes on a charm. “Anything else we should know?” 

“Oh, plenty,” Yang says breezily, drifts around the counter to Blake’s side, watches her spine steady and straighten with expectation. The adjustment of her posture - it’s something Yang’s attuned to through years of training, study; she knows the flight of fear, knows the instinct of danger - and Blake’s is always light-footed, always ready to run, always wary of her exits. It’s a harsh reminder of her past. Yang thinks of working it out of her, of keeping an open hand instead of a closed fist. She settles on a smile, lifts an arm as if moved by windfall, gently grasps a curl and tucks it behind Blake’s ear. “But like I said - you can tell me when you’re ready.” 

It’s another thing Blake doesn’t expect, that much is clear; she presses her lips together, sun of her irises muting themselves to shadow. Sometimes it’s like she’s always on the verge of tears. Privately, Yang thinks it might do her some good to cry, but that’s a bridge to be built, that’s a wall to tear down. 

Blake’s the one who initiates, kisses her lips with a novelty, another piece in place. She pulls away, her smile still sitting prettily, and fingers the material of Yang’s robe. 

“This is absolutely atrocious,” she says, and Yang tosses back her head and laughs; Blake doesn’t use it as a stoppage point, instead regarding it as if an extended hand. Like Yang’s laugh is all that’s needed to make her brave. The humor twirling in the corner of her mouth fades. “What if I - what if I’m ready now?”

It hangs heavy in the air. “I don’t want you to feel pressured,” Yang says.

“I know.” Blake exhales a breath, knuckles white on the counter. “That’s why I want to tell you.” 

Yang appraises her a moment longer - there’s no hint of sympathy, only an encouragement and a depth wrought with concern - before inclining her head, _go on._

She ducks her chin slightly, protecting herself from the memory. “His name is Adam Taurus,” she begins, slow and cautious like she’s afraid he’ll manifest from her words alone, some kind of _Bloody Mary_ knockoff. “He...he discovered us. The band, I mean. Maybe six years ago. We were playing at a seedy bar in Brooklyn, and he was on a business trip - he’s a pretty high-ranking executive at _White Fang._ ” It’s a big label, doesn’t require any further explanation. Yang merely nods her for her to continue. “He was so... _confident._ So intelligent, artistic, articulate.He said we had promise, and all we needed to do was refine it, and he could help us do that.” 

“He gave you a record deal?”

“Not...exactly,” she says, runs her tongue over a canine. “His boss - Sienna - didn’t quite trust his instincts. It took awhile for him to convince her to let us record even an EP. But by that point--” she looks away, ashamed “--I’d already spent so much time _believing_ him, you know? He’d - he used to tell me how _talented_ I was. How _beautiful_.” She grits her teeth, jaw tight underneath her skin, hearing the words in his voice. “We were so inexperienced, and he - he took it upon himself to correct that. He had us out here, in a city none of us knew, wrapped around his finger.” The next sentence comes forced, smile sickened without irony. “It was addicting, you know? Being the center of his attention. He was so _powerful._ And he wanted _me._ ” 

Yang reaches out, skims her fingers back and forth across Blake’s wrist; it’s a gesture that helps tie her to the present. “How long were you with him?” 

“Two years.” Blake looks like she can barely believe it happened at all. “I was nineteen when he found me. He was twenty-six.” She adjusts her weight uncomfortably between feet. Yang’s stomach clenches in on itself, revolted. Nineteen, so simple to impress, to manipulate. “Sienna loved our EP, and I just - I fell into it. And suddenly I was living in his highrise in Hollywood, and he was taking me to important dinners to meet important people, and adding his own touch to every song I wrote, every melody. He became - _overbearing._ I couldn’t do anything right. I wasn’t working fast enough - I wasn’t making his investment _worth_ it.” 

“Like you were property,” Yang spits. She doesn’t allow herself a fist, but her bones tremble with the weight of rage. “Blake--” 

“Sienna voided our contract,” she continues. She’s taken on an eerie, detached sort of tone. “I wasn’t able to write, or sing, or record. He was always - always so _angry_ at me. I had - so many bruises _._ And it was always - always my _fault._ ”

Bruises, no, that’s not--“I thought you said he didn’t hit you until you tried to leave.” 

White-knuckle becomes bone, like skin unpeeling. Her own ghost, manifesting. Blake whispers, “Tried. I tried to leave six months before I actually left.”

Yang wraps her arms around Blake’s shoulders, crushes her into an embrace, tight against her chest; the radius of an earthquake, the expanding mushroom cloud of a nuclear bomb - there’s natural disaster and then there’s men, the ruins they leave when they’re bored of bloodshed.

“Baby,” Yang murmurs brokenly into her ear, face buried in black hair, shaking the way leaves float gently away from trees. “Oh, _baby._ ” 

“It’s okay,” Blake says, and she’s barely even there. “It’s okay. I’m okay now.” 

It’s a lie, Yang knows, but sometimes _I’m okay_ is all people have left.

\--

She holds Blake close that night, pressed against soft, cotton sheets, tucked between feather pillows and her down comforter. She smoothes over her own bones, won’t touch Blake with a single sharp edge. Blake never cries, but she shivers so violently it’s like her body’s doing it for her.

Yang kisses her forehead, her cheeks, her nose, her lips. “He’ll never touch you again,” she whispers. “Nobody will. Not unless you want them to. You’re allowed that, Blake. You’re allowed.” 

Fingers spread against Yang’s neck, thread through blonde hair and curl. “You,” she says, clarity and presence making a return. “You. I only want you.” 

“Okay,” Yang says, holding her own tears at bay, her throat in a shipwreck. “Okay. I’m yours.” 

\--

Blake starts to stay the night. She stays a lot of nights. And Yang’s assistant gets more and more time off, not that she complains.

The tour’s over, Blake says, and all we really have left to do is work on our sophomore album - _Beacon Records_ leaves a lot more room for creativity and opportunity, Blake tells her with a wry smile, and they’re incredibly happy with the performance of _Menagerie_ ’sfirst album - and that process, Yang learns, is heavily reliant on her anyway. Sun often jokes of _visions_ : flashes of inspiration in lyrics, melodies winding their way around her skull. Music is her blood, he says with a joking grin, and Yang believes him.

“So what’s the process like?” she asks one evening when they’re working out in Yang’s home gym - well, _Yang’s_ working out; Blake’s lounging around on a yoga mat, drinking Jamba Juice. “And am I distracting you from it?” She wraps her hands around her pull-up bar, feels her muscles flexing, feels Blake’s stare even more overpowering. So, the innuendo had a purpose. 

Blake releases her straw with a _pop,_ sighs heavily behind her. “ _Nooo,_ ” she drawls sarcastically. “You, the most gorgeous woman alive, sweaty and bench pressing _double_ my weight? Doing fifty push-ups in a row wearing only a sports bra and shorts? How could that _possibly_ be distracting?” She doesn't have a view of Yang’s face, but she clicks her tongue disapprovingly at the shit-eating grin she knows must be there, and there’s a _flunk_ as if she’s just thrown herself backwards on her mat. “I can see your ego expanding, Yang.” 

“If I don’t work out, my trainer’s gonna beat my ass,” she reasons, chin over the top of the bar. She’s a few weeks out from wrapping _Magnhild_ with Nora, some gritty _Thor-_ like feature part of a series of genderbent superhero reboots - she’s only supporting, but she plays a character in the same universe from a different set of movies - and her workout regiment doesn’t leave a ton of room for error. Fortunately she’d been muscular even prior to the films - she’d been drawn to boxing as a kid, something Tai’d passed down to her.

( _Can’t wait ‘til you’re cast in the Fight Club reboot,_ Blake had jabbed at the revelation. _Maybe Rocky. Or what about - what’s her name, won the belt or whatever--_

 _I’m gonna stop you there,_ Yang’d said back. _I know you don’t know any other boxers, Blake, but it’s cute that you try._ )

“ _Ugh_ ,” Blake groans. She sounds like she’s being tortured. “ _Nobody_ has muscle definition like that. Nobody.”

Yang manages a breathless laugh in response, but her palms are damp and it’s getting harder to keep herself steady - _forty, forty-one_ \- her hair’s sticking to the back of her neck - _forty-four, forty-five_ \- there’s definitely a knot in her shoulder from when she’d gone down on Blake in the shower - _fifty._

She drops to the floor, stretching languidly, cracking her neck; she turns around, finds Blake with her eyes resolutely shut, stretched out her mat. “What are you doing?” Yang asks, entertained. 

“Shut up,” she mumbles. “It’s shavasana. I’m trying to relax and focus on the parts of my body that aren’t incredibly horny for you.” 

“What parts would those be?” Yang towels her face off. She presses the material against her forehead, spiderwebs threading through the backs of her eyelids. “Like, your internal organs or something? I know it’s not your pu--” 

“No,” Blake interrupts, as if just hearing the word is going to send her feral. Her foot twitches. “My internal organs definitely want you to crush them with your bare hands. I’m trying to focus on like, I don’t know, my shoulder blades.” 

“Nice.” 

“I’m _PMSing_ ,” she whines, opening her eyes and shifting up onto her elbows. Her hair drags against the mat. “I’m horny all the time. I want you to rip me in half.” 

Yang snorts into a laugh, throwing the towel over her shoulder; Blake’s hardly so dramatic, and there’s an endless amusement to her when she is - but there’s also a time and a place, and Yang’s not done with her workout yet. Discipline: _that’s_ something she’s being tested on these days. “Tell me about your process.” 

“It’s not that interesting,” Blake grumbles, pushing herself into a cross-legged position as Yang moves to the bike; it’s her come-down from a grueling exercise. “It...just comes to me. Usually it’s a lyric. Once in awhile, I’ll get a melody first, and build the song off of that. But normally I just - a line comes to me, and I write it down, and I expand it. Sometimes it takes me months - sometimes hours. I wrote _Burning the Candle_ in a single afternoon, music and all.” 

“See, _that’s_ incredible,” Yang says vehemently, crooking her neck so Blake can read the ferocious sincerity in her eyes. “Almost anyone can have muscle definition, provided they train hard enough in the right ways, and plenty of people can act. But music? Songwriting? Composing? I couldn’t do that shit in a million years.” 

“You make it easy, actually,” Blake lets slip dismissively and pauses, jerkily picking up her smoothie and sipping in place of interrogation. Yang lets the bike stall, arms dropping from the handles, mouth curling into a wicked smirk. 

She recognizes deflection when she sees it. “I make it easy, huh?” she says, toying with her. Blake’s cheeks match the pink of her drink. “Care to expand on _that?_ ” 

“No.” 

“Baby.” 

“ _Ugh,_ ” Blake says, powerless against endearments, but when she finally speaks it’s with a carefully-planned calm, thoughtful and discerning. Her eyes slip to the window, the sun setting through a haze. “You...you’re inspiring. Just being with you - being here - these are things I...I never would’ve imagined having, even six months ago. You’re - you _care_ about me, and I’m not...not used to knowing what that looks like. But I know now. And it’s something I want to write about. Sing about.” She keeps her eyes locked on the horizon, lets the light pattern her face. It’s always easier telling the truth when you don’t have to look directly at it. A blush peppers her cheeks, flushes her neck.

Yang’s smile breaks wide and beaming; her blood flutters underneath her skin, her heart with wings. She remembers teasing Blake about a song the night they met, but it’d been distant, more of a dream than a possibility - and now - now it’s been two months, and dates have turned into days, nights, mornings; unfamiliarity vanishes like it’d never even been there. Visions, Sun had said. Maybe Yang’d had one, too.

Two months. In March, their schedules hadn’t been the most forgiving, but they’d made it work - phone calls, FaceTimes, random surprise visits. It’s April, and Yang’s never felt at home in her own house until Blake let herself seep into the walls, the carpet, the furniture. Everything’s got a story. In the same day, Blake both burns toast to a crisp and absent-mindedly forgets to put a lid on the blender, and it’s how Yang learns all kitchens should have a restraining order against her. They watch a movie and Blake falls asleep against her shoulder, legs tucked over her lap; she makes herself small, fits into Yang’s body like it’s what she was made for. Yang’s bed is big and it isn’t empty anymore, and one side of it starts to smell like honeysuckle and hyacinth. 

Two months, but it feels simultaneously as if it’s been seconds, ticking by in lurching flashes and trudging years, complete with tolling bells. Time has a way of slipping out of its order when you’re with people you love.

So Yang says, “I accepted the part for _Out of Fire._ ” 

Blake’s gaze snaps back to her, disoriented at the change of topic. “You did?” 

“Yeah.” She licks her lips, dry. “We start production in a few months.” 

There’s a brief silence until Blake asks, “Why?” as if it’s the only question she can think of.

“I can’t do what you can,” Yang says, slips off the bike. Discipline can come another day. Her ponytail swings over her shoulder, the line of her shoulders sharp and honest as she shrugs them. “I can’t...immortalize people unless they’re real and I’m acting as them. So I guess this is - the next best thing, or something. My version of it.” 

Blake blinks, eyelashes casting shadow against her cheekbones; she has a regalness to her that contrasts brilliantly with her current attire, a loose tank top and sweats, Jamba Juice cup still clutched in her hand, and it’s one more thing Yang adds to her list of _Reasons She Definitely Doesn’t Love Blake Belladonna._

She’s staring up curiously, watching Yang approach with a cute, confused sort of frown. “What do you mean?”

“The minute you said you liked the book, I knew I’d do it,” Yang confesses, slowing to a halt above her. “I thought about - I don’t know. Making you proud. Doing justice to something you loved.” She holds Blake’s stare, doesn’t wander. It’s easier when you aren’t looking directly at the truth, but not nearly as rewarding. “They would’ve made it with or without me, and you would’ve seen it regardless. So I - maybe I’m selfish. I wanted it to be me.” 

The part of her lips, her intake of breath - her irises swallow the sunset, putting it entirely to shame. Blake says suddenly, “I love the way you speak,” and her eyebrows raise and lower as if she’s surprised herself with the admission. “You’re - you’re so - it’s like you spend so much time thinking about what you’re supposed to say, and how you’re supposed to say it, that - when you talk to me, you’re just - it’s so real.” Yang drops to mirror her, a similar cross-legged position on the other half of the mat. Hearing other people’s perceptions of her isn’t new territory, but Blake being the one to do it--

Blake glances down, laughs once, quietly to herself. It’s almost reluctant, like there’s something she’s tapped into against her will. “‘Maybe I’m selfish. I wanted it to be me,’” she quotes, voice melodic and raw. “Yang, that’s fucking beautiful.” 

“It’s true.” Yang doesn’t defend, only verifies, and they’re on the precipice of something greater. The yoga mat sinks, molds to her weight. 

“I know, but I take a lot of words to tell the truth,” Blake says, smile crooked. She pushes Yang’s damp bangs away from her forehead. “You? You just...say it. Like it’s nothing. Sometimes I _look_ at you and I swear I know exactly what you’re thinking.” 

“I believe that,” Yang says, elbows resting on her knees, posture slouched. Her lips twist the opposite corner, complementary. “D’you know what I’m thinking right now?”

Blake’s pupils dart between her own, line of her mouth growing softer, becoming something flowers bloom from. Her hand falls to the crease of Yang’s wrist, her pulse beating in the tips of her fingers. Blake has the heart of a crescent moon, waxing and waning. Yang’s the opposite, whole and burning and unobstructed. 

“Yeah,” Blake murmurs, draws her close for a kiss, mouth caught in a day-night cycle. “But I’ll let you tell me that yourself. One day.” 

\--

It’s not meant to be _secret,_ in the brutal and unforgiving way that makes it feel like something to be ashamed of rather than protected; she’s not hiding Blake from the people close to her, just the rest of the world. But Pyrrha’s been on location for a film, and it’s not the sort of thing she wants to reveal over text; Ruby’s on her own tour, due back in a a few weeks, and she knows but she doesn’t _know_. Doesn’t know it’s serious, doesn’t know Yang’s heart is miles away from where she last saw it. 

It’s hard to go out with friends - Yang and Nora have a week left of filming, and the days are often long, grueling - and Blake has moments where she’s so stuck in her own head full of music that she hardly moves, holes herself up in her apartment and writes furiously, gazing out the window as she plays melodies only she can hear. It happens a few times when she’s at Yang’s, and Yang’s learned to hand her a notepad and a pen and watch her scribble. It takes hold of her so relentlessly that all Yang can do is let her ride it out, not that she wants to interrupt anyway - watching Blake work, scratching out choruses and guitar solos and drum lines, is fascinating and addicting. It’s like her own personal behind-the-scenes documentary, _the making of…_ , and she can’t get enough of the expression on Blake’s face - she bites her bottom lip as she thinks, eyebrows knitting together, sometimes tapping her fingers across a page until she finds the right note. Sometimes she sings to herself, and Yang wants to snatch the world from its orbit and say _stop, listen._

So it isn’t _secret._ It’s just kept out of sight for the moment, clandestine until the right time presents itself. 

Blake doesn’t mind - she seems comfortable in darkness and behind walls, like there’s someone she’s still hiding from, which she won’t admit to doing even if it’s true. Yang doesn’t have to make too many leaps to form that conclusion. She’ll never forget Blake’s voice, stumbling over recounts of her abuse.

And, well - they don’t really have a _word,_ either. ‘Dating’ is what they’ve gone with, though it’s kind of hard to tell what that entails, since it seems like they’ve jumped straight into exclusivity. Bridges to build, cross, burn. They’ll get there.

Her phone vibrates on a Saturday morning. She pulls it out from underneath her pillow, blinks blearily at it; Blake’s still sleeping soundly on the other side of the bed, curled up and facing away. She likes to sleep on her side, limbs tucked together; most nights Yang falls asleep wrapped around her body, enveloping her. Safety comes consumed.

 _Got ur piece back,_ the text from Coco reads. _I can drop it off in an hour if u want._

Her heart jumps up her throat. _yes! thanks!!!_

_U better give me the story when I get there_

She smirks at her screen; she’ll have the story in flesh and blood, waiting at the door. _oh i sure will._

She drops her phone again, stretches out an arm instead, rubs the curve of Blake’s spine with a careless hand, cartographs every ridge and river and valley. Blake stirs, draws even further into herself, bone catching against her skin. She’s so smooth, unbroken. Yang knows that must be a miracle in itself.

“Feels good,” she hums, a sign for Yang to continue. Yang replaces her fingers with her lips, counts every vertebrae, catalogues the fluid way her shoulder blades glide when she turns over, searching for Yang’s mouth with her own. Yang’s mornings used to be cool and quiet, hard to escape from. Now they’re moments she wants to revel in. “You always wake me up early, but it’s so nice I can’t be mad.” 

“It’s nine.” 

“I’m a rock star. I sleep in until twelve.” 

“Oh, right.” Yang arranges her expression into stoicism, solemnly pulling back to examine Blake’s face. She nods, small frown taking over her lips. “You need your beauty sleep. I see that now.”

“Exactly,” Blake plays along despite her exhaustion. “I’m like the crypt keeper.” 

“This is why we have to keep our relationship a secret,” Yang says, moving to throw an arm lazily around her waist. Blake’s stretched out on her back, sheets barely covering her chest. “I’m dating _way_ below my league.” 

Her laugh can’t quite make it out of her mouth, sticks somewhere in her throat. Yang absolutely worships her; she’s never been less insecure about anything. She says, “Wow. I’d better keep you around, then, since I’ll never do better.” 

“Yeah,” Yang says, smile blinding like the morning sun, and presses her lips to Blake’s cheek. “You’d better, Belladonna.” 

\--

Coco buzzes herself in at the gate, punching in the passcode with a familiar hand. She parks behind Yang’s Tesla, steps out of her Mustang with her sunglasses already centered over her eyes; her beret sits skewed, similar to her belt and scarf - every day’s a fashion show for her, but that’s also the reason she’s Yang’s stylist. She rings the doorbell restlessly, and she’s actually tapping her foot by the time Yang yanks it open a minute later. 

“You’re _hiding_ something,” Coco accuses instantly, jabbing a finger an inch from her nose. Yang merely rolls her eyes, takes the velvet box from Coco’s other hand and turns back inside, leaving the door open for her to follow. “This was a very _specific,_ _top-secret_ project. And that pick was, what - twenty-five cents? You got a twenty-five cent guitar pick framed in _gold_ and made into a necklace? I’m not--” 

Her rambling cuts off immediately upon entering the kitchen, end of the sentence stalling in her throat - because leaning against the counter, with a steaming mug cupped in her hands and an expression of mild amusement softening her edges, is a girl she’s only seen in pictures, YouTube videos of concert performances. It’s hard to grasp, even with the proof standing in front of her, but--

Blake Belladonna is wearing a deep purple silk robe, loosely tied at the waist leaving a slit up her thigh, looking haughty and elegant and _effortlessly_ gorgeous; with her black hair tumbling over her shoulders and a bare face, she’s easily more alluring than plenty of people Coco styles. Her bones just _fit_ underneath her skin, cheekbones high and curved, jawline sharp without threatening a blade. Her lips are full, red like she’s just spent a long time being kissed, and she’s wearing a bruise on her neck like a tattoo.

“--Stupid,” Coco finishes dumbly, staring at her. She straightens up, raises her sunglasses above her eyes, needing to look without a tint. Yang sets the box on the counter. “Oh my _God._ Blake? Blake Belladonna?”

“Hi,” Blake says, grin curling. 

She rounds on Yang. “ _This_ iswhat you’ve been hiding?” she asks, gesturing incredulously. “ _Blake Belladonna?_ ” 

“Yep,” Yang answers cheerfully, ruffling a hand through her hair. She’s in a tank top and a pair of sleep shorts, and even though she’s supposed to be one of the most beautiful people in the world, Blake’s sure giving her a hell of a run for her money. Well, _that_ makes perfect sense. “Blake, this is Coco Adel. She’s my friend and stylist.”

“Oh my God,” Coco repeats, turns back to examine her, and about fifty things actually slot into place at once. “You’ve been - the two of you - it’s _yours._ This was _your_ guitar pick.” 

“Unless Yang’s dating some other rock star and hoarding her picks,” Blake says, raising an eyebrow cockily, “then, yeah, I’m assuming it’s mine.” 

“How long has this been going on?” Coco interrogates, mind running an obstacle course. She’s been telling Yang to get a personal life for years, go out with attractive strangers, lower her standards, and now--

“How’d you even know who I was?” Blake asks instead, sipping from her mug. 

“Everyone gay knows who you are,” Coco dismisses impatiently. Yang tosses Blake a look and smirk she doesn’t miss. “ _Burning the Candle_ is like, a queer anthem. When you wrote ‘I passed a girl on the street with hands that looked softer than her lips, I’ve been searching for solace in all the wrong places’? That hit deep.” 

“I told you,” Yang says, shrugging when Blake echoes her glance, more exasperated. “And it’s been going on for like two months.”

“I was _wondering_ why we haven’t seen you around lately,” Coco says, slips her sunglasses back in place and allows her mouth to twist into a sharp vermouth. She’ll get some blackmail out of it. “But thiscertainly answers _that_ question.” 

“Yang likes to keep me to herself,” Blake tells her seriously, mug still cradled in her hands. “She thinks I’m too hideous to take out in public.” 

“Yep,” Yang says again, just as bright. “I have an image to maintain. Seen out with _her?_ Career suicide.” 

“Pretty sure I’ve seen a movie like this before,” Coco says, deadpan and dry. There’s a lot to take in about the two of them and not nearly enough time. Her first - her only - impression is more conceptual; just the phrase _well, duh -_ of _course_ Blake Belladonna is standing in Yang’s kitchen at ten in the morning after waking up in her bed, drinking tea out of a mug she’d bought at a boutique in Paris two years ago. Everything about the scene suits Blake perfectly. They were made with the mirror image of the other in mind. 

“So have I,” Blake agrees, mocking tilt of her lips. “I think you starred in it, Yang.” 

“I think that was Pyrrha.” 

“You’re very interchangeable.” 

“I’ve heard that from viewers,” Yang says with a dejected sigh. Coco snickers at their banter - it’s been a long time, but she’s seeing it now; Yang’s _light._ Her smile isn’t forced, and Coco’s probably one of the few people in the world who’d be able to tell if it were. The tension she’s so accustomed to harboring, the forced strength she’s always using to carry her head high - it’s all gone, like it never existed to begin with. 

Coco’s phone vibrates in her back pocket; she curses under her breath as she pulls it out, interrupting their playful insults. The name on the message alone is enough. “I’ve gotta go,” she says apologetically. “Velvet and I have a client meeting at eleven in Toluca Lake, and it’s always hell going over the hill. Blake, it was wonderful to meet you, big fan - if you ever need a stylist, call me.” 

Blake laughs genuinely. “Likewise,” she says, “and will do. Maybe we’ll see each other sometime soon, if Yang ever decides I’m pretty enough to leave the house.” 

“Don’t hold your breath.” Yang’s reply comes immediately, but her smile lends itself to a different story. A picture’s worth the words. “Thanks, Coco. I’ll let you know what I think.” 

“Sure thing,” she says, tossing a wave over her shoulder as she heads for the door, and it feels like turning her back on something mythical. 

\--

Blake sets the mug down on the counter, nods to the velvet box. “Open it,” she says, side-eyes Yang coyly. “Nice surprise, by the way.” 

“I couldn’t wait any longer,” Yang says, lifting the lid, and whistles lowly after a second of comprehension. “Oh, wow. Her contact did a _great_ job.” 

She sounds appraising, but it’s nothing compared to Blake’s reaction - her jaw tumbles open like the gold chain the pick is attached to, hanging loosely as Yang lifts it from the box, examining every centimeter. It’s finely nestled in its frame, not to subtract from the pick itself but to highlight it. She hadn’t elected to punch a hole in it, like Blake would've done - she’d just, apparently, wanted to melt gold around it. 

“Jesus, Yang,” Blake murmurs, touching it carefully. _Real_ gold. She doesn’t even need to ask for that fact to be verified. “You - you didn’t have to do this.” 

“I wanted to,” Yang says, and slips it overhead, carefully working her hair out of the way until the metal touches her neck. It comes to rest right at the dip of her cleavage, and already Blake can tell that it’ll match ninety percent of Yang’s wardrobe. The thought of Yang designing it as something to be worn casually sparks a different kind of emotion; a depth and a seriousness and a future. 

Blake cups her face, stands on her toes, brings their mouths together; Yang’s hands spread open against her lower back, fingers on either side of her spine. She’s reminded of how small she is, but it doesn’t feel like a vulnerability anymore, doesn’t act like a force that leaves her powerless. They break apart, and she glances down again, takes the pick in her hands, remembers how it felt between her fingers, plucking at her strings. 

This, she thinks, is a perfect home for it; sitting on Yang’s chest, right above where Blake swears her own heart is beating. They have the same pulse, blood in each other’s veins.

Maybe immortalizing someone is easier than they’d thought it to be originally, Blake realizes; maybe it’s simpler than a song, more straightforward than a movie. Maybe all you have to do for someone to live forever is love them enough.

\--

Yang and Nora’s last day of filming comes in a whirlwind, leaves without tears - it’s a broad cinematic universe, and the next movie in line is Yang’s; they’ll all be reunited soon enough. The wrap party’s the following night on a Friday; she’s allowed a guest, she tells Blake - she’d probably be allowed fifty, if she asked for it - but no excuse good enough presents itself to warrant Blake’s presence without suspicion. 

“Too many people from the crew I don’t know,” Yang says with a grimace early in the afternoon, rummaging through her closet wearing only lingerie. “Wrap party pictures _always_ leak somehow.” 

“It’s okay,” Blake says, pen in hand, notebook open on her lap. She’s burrowing her teeth into her bottom lip, absorbed with her own words. “I haven’t seen Sun in awhile - I asked him if he wanted to grab Shake Shack and hang out at my place. I’m going to run through some of these songs with him, see what he thinks.”

“I’ll drunk-text you,” Yang promises, tugging a dress off a hanger. Wrap parties aren’t always red carpets; she doesn’t really need Coco’s help for this one. Makeup and hair, though - Velvet’ll be there any minute. “Maybe I’ll drunk-sext you, if you’re lucky.” 

There’s the telltale twitch of her mouth - Blake can’t resist for long, even with her veins encased in music. She looks up, lets her stare linger appreciatively; the toned muscle of Yang’s upper back, dimples low on either side of her spine, the curve of her ass. There’s inspiration to be gained: _I’m getting on my knees / I see God in you,_ she scrawls across a page, and shuts the notebook with a snap.

“I think I’m gonna get lucky,” she says cooly, and the fangs of a demon extend from Yang’s answering smile.

\--

The venue’s boisterous, pulsating, and entirely overwhelming. 

Or it would be, if Yang hadn’t been to about fifty of them already. 

Nora’s startlingly ginger hair - and the fact that she’s usually the loudest person in the room - make her easy to spot in the crowd. She’s over to the right of the bar, Ren at her side (possibly stoned, Yang thinks, but she kind of wishes _she_ were at these parties, too), and chatting amicably with her makeup artist. Yang raises a hand, paints on a smile, waves--

“Yang!” Nora calls immediately, inhaling a breath as if about to run a marathon. She barely excuses herself from the conversation before rushing over, snatching a champagne glass off the tray of a nearby server. “Thank you - sorry--”

“It’s been _so_ long,” Yang greets sarcastically as Nora nearly trips over herself in her haste. “I came tonight just to see you, Nora.” 

“Of course you did,” Nora says, thrusting the glass into her hand. She looks Yang up and down, beaming; her free hand automatically covers Yang’s, wrapped around her clutch. She’s a touchy drunk. “You look _great._ ” 

She’d settled on a fitted, short-sleeved off-white dress - textured with a vine-like pattern, all lace. It dips between her breasts, where her necklace now rests. Her heels are a matching color, strappy with gold bands. “Thanks. And you’re standing out, as per usual.” 

Nora’s is a little more vibrant - she likes to have _fun,_ and it shows. She’s in pink; it’s loose at the waist, frilly, and something no other redhead on the planet could probably get away with. Nora laughs, downs her drink in about a second flat. “No date tonight?” she asks conspiratorially, glancing pointedly at the necklace.

“Nope,” Yang says, sipping at her own champagne. “We couldn’t think of a good enough excuse, and I can’t trust people not to talk.” 

“Ugh.” Nora rewards her explanation with an eye-roll, equally as irritated. She’s the type to experience her emotions passionately, even when they aren’t entirely hers to feel. “It’s hard being in the early stages of that shit. It’s like - remember when Pyrrha and Jaune started dating? They were terrified of the sun, I _swear_.”

That’s something Yang remembers well, actually; Pyrrha’d spent months agonizing over it, worried about the press with an influence, panicking over Twitter comments. Yang had found it dramatic at the time, somewhat trite - she doesn’t think that anymore. She gives the flashback a grimace. “Yeah. Jesus.“

Nora frowns at her empty glass. “I don’t know why we’re drinking _champagne,_ ” she complains, mindlessly switching subjects. It’s something Yang’s used to. “Come on, let’s hit the bar. Mercury brought _Emerald,_ but they’re sitting by the stage, so we can ignore them.” 

The liquid in her own glass bubbles - Mercury’s name makes it taste like poison. “God, he’s such an asshole,” she grumbles, following Nora back to the bar. Multiple people call to her as they pass, waving and smiling, and she returns each gesture just as kindly. She sips at her drink again, grumbling under her breath. “What is this, the fucking Oscars? I want tequila.”

“I’m saying,” Nora agrees, patting Ren on the shoulder as she passes him up for alcohol. If they’d just _sit,_ Yang’s sure Ren’s said a hundred times by now, someone could _serve_ them, but Nora likes to be on her feet. Yang slips him a _hello_ as they walk by. “Let’s do shots. I’m getting _hammered_ tonight. We’re officially free!” 

The lights pulse overhead; the DJ says something into the microphone, and half the theatre yells in response, rolls into a wave. They both ignore it. The bartender looks at them; Nora holds up four fingers and mouths _tequila._ Yang asks, “What’s lined up for you next?” 

“I think they’re changing the name of it, but it’s a story based on that woman who survived after her helicopter crashed in rural Alaska - she like, fought a bear and shit?” Nora pokes her tongue against her cheek. “I bet I could fight a bear and win.”

The vibration of Yang’s phone and the following snap of her clutch is enough of a distraction for them both; Blake’s texted her, all innuendo, something about sending pictures of her dress. “I bet you could,” Yang answers inattentively, and Nora peaks over to read.

“Oh, she’s feisty,” Nora says, grinning. The bartender passes them their shots, and Nora waves a hand again, getting his attention. “Hey,” she says, “can you take a video of us?” 

“Sure,” he says, smiling nicely back. Nora swipes to her camera without opening her phone, passing it to him. She and Yang sprinkle salt on the skin between their thumbs and forefingers, pick up a shot each - limes sit in a bowl in front of them - and then they clink their glasses with matching arcs of their mouths, knocking the shots back without even a trace of a grimace or a hint of a blink. Nora’s grin snakes even wider, revealing her teeth; Yang just laughs. 

Nora takes her phone back, texts Yang the video. She floats a hundred dollar bill into the tip jar.

“Tell her I love her music,” she says, devilish gleam in her eye, “and that I won’t let anybody else hit on you tonight.” 

\--

Blake and Sun get a surprising amount done before the texts begin to roll in.

He’s working on a riff, sprawled out on the floor with his guitar resting across his stomach; she’s sitting at the table with her notepad, reading him chords. The vibration’s strong enough to cause an echo against the wood, startling them both out of their focus. Blake picks it up, sees a thumbnail of a video--

“Oh,” she says aloud, smiling radiantly, and Sun actually sits up as the sound starts to play, blaring and crackling through her speakers.

It’s noisy, dim with flashing lights, but there’s no mistaking the sincerity of Yang’s smile, no denying the beautiful arch of her neck as she throws her head back, swallowing. The dress - Blake had seen her slip it on before she’d left, but hadn’t seen her with her makeup done, her hair curled - she’s stunning, breathtaking, and she’s Blake’s. There’s a thousand people in that room, and one day every single one of them will know. 

“A party?” Sun asks, plucks at his _F._ “Who’s sending you - _oh._ ” 

She glances up, flush of her cheeks caught. “Yeah.” She clears her throat, note of pride weaving through every word. “It’s the wrap party for the movie she’s just finished filming.” 

_nora says she loves ur music and that she wont let anyone else hit on my tonight_

_me*_

Blake answers in quick, broad keystrokes, trusting autocorrect with most of the work - something about Sun’s knowing stare feels like an intrusion. _tell her thanks and that I love her movies. and I appreciate her playing the part of your bodyguard._ She pauses, thumbs hovering over the letters. _babe, you look incredible._

 _wish u were here,_ Yang responds, and Blake can somehow hear the doleful tone, the runaway longing.

_me too._

When she sets her phone back down, Sun’s sitting with his arms across the top of his guitar, chin resting on top. His smile’s so soft and kind that she’s momentarily thrown by the sight of him living up to his name. “What?” she asks, unnerved. 

“Nothing,” he says, eyes flitting back to his guitar. “I’m just happy to see _you_ happy.” 

She cuts her teeth against the inside of her lip, understanding the weight of perspective. He’s been around a long time, and he’s seen a lot of her - too much of her - more than she’d wanted anyone to see: bruises, blood, bones beneath her skin. She fights her instinct to be dismissive. She owes him more than that.

“Thanks,” is what she settles on, and her smile, as small as it is, plays louder than any song.

\--

It’s been hours by the time she’s pushed over the edge. 

It’s a remix of some sort, but Yang’d know her voice anywhere. 

Nora pops an olive into her mouth, gives her an eyeroll and slips her fingers around Yang’s half-finished rosemary margarita. “Oh, get out of here.”

“Hm?” Yang says, undeniably focused on the music; there’s an expanse of skin on her mind, gold irises alight in fire and deft, long fingers. 

“Yang.” Nora’s sigh exhales so dramatically it’s like she’s trying to get nominated. “They’ve cut the cake; you’ve talked to everyone important _._ Go see your woman.” 

Oh, wow, now _that’s_ an idea - Yang can’t believe she hadn’t thought of it herself. “Yes,” she agrees, despite it not quite being a sentiment to agree with. “I’m gonna do that.” 

\--

The knock at her door hits heavy, sudden, and almost sends her heart straight into cardiac arrest, flushes shock through her nervous system. It’s pushing one in the morning when it comes - she’s still up, texting Yang, laughing at the sloppy misspellings and drunken ramblings. 

_Someone’s at my door,_ she quickly shoots over, and the typing bubble pops up instantly in response.

_ya it me, letme in lollllll_

She blinks owlishly at her phone, the screen coating her room in a dim blue light. The pieces take a second to fall into place, and then she _jolts_ out of bed, feet nearly skipping against the wood. She swears she’s hit with the adrenaline to jerk the knob straight out of its socket.

“Hel- _looo,_ ” Yang sing-songs as Blake swings it open, looking precisely as drunk as her texts had made her out to be. Her phone’s still held in her hand; Blake’s name glows across the screen. “How’s it goin’, gorgeous?” 

Her words are all slurred, and her smile tilts with her lopsided center of gravity; she’s still wearing her dress from the party, hair drifting messily over her shoulders and spiraling down her back. She’s wavering a little on her feet, but nothing alarming. Blake says, undeniably amused, “Well, now it’s going _great._ What are you doing here?” 

“I missed you,” Yang says matter-of-factly, takes an unsteady step forward and nearly collapses, slotting her arms around Blake’s neck. She continues airily into her ear, “The party was fun. You’re more fun. So I’m here.” 

“I can see that,” Blake says, swallows a laugh, pats her on the back. The door shuts behind them; Yang contentedly curls strands of black hair around her fingers. “Did anyone see you?” 

“Nope,” Yang says, popping the ‘p’. “I’m _stealthy._ Also, your security remembers me.” 

Less likely they remembered her and more likely they recognized her from the giant billboard down the street, but Blake’ll let her have it; she seems too proud to shoot down. If anything, she’s even _more_ noticeable than usual, cracking six feet in her heels. “Yes, you’re the epitome of low-key.” 

“Yeah, I’m fading into irrelevancy fast.” Her spine slowly straightens to an arc under Blake’s fingers, and she stands tall again, pausing for playback. “Is that even a word?” 

“I think it’s just irrelevance,” Blake says, and Yang wobbles slightly as she’s thrown into a laugh; she’s a joke away from a broken ankle. Blake tuts, guides her towards the couch. “Sit down, baby.” 

“Woah,” Yang says, awed and elated, allows herself to be led. Her eyes - lashes heavy, lids smoky and lined - stare up at her, wide and honest. Miraculously, her lipstick’s still perfectly in place. “You should call me that more. That - like, my heart’s beating.” 

“I sure hope it is.” She bends down, works on undoing the strap of Yang’s heels. Yang snorts into laughter, endlessly amused (but mostly drunk). Blake drops the first heel on the floor. “Other foot.” 

“You’re funny, too,” Yang tells her like she’s worried Blake’s unaware of this fact. “You’re the funniest person I know. I feel like people don’t get that about you.” 

Blake grins at her, dropping the other heel. “They don’t,” she says, and scoots up beside her, resting an arm across the back of the couch with a knee crooked flat. Yang’s sinking into it, drunk and comfortable, and she’s just _staring_ with such untempered affection in her eyes that Blake’s nearly struck speechless. “My stand-up routine is for you and you only.” 

Her face takes on a slant of sudden reverence. “God, you’re so beautiful,” she says, almost to the point of whiplash. “You’re like - you know, when I look at you, I hear your music. Actually, when I hear _any_ music at all, I - I think about you. That’s like a sign, right?” 

“A sign of what?” Blake doesn’t stop the question until a second too late, but resigns herself to the answer in the same breath. If this is the moment Yang chooses to reveal the depth of her emotion, it won’t be the worst thing - beautiful - that’s Yang, no contest. Sometimes Blake touches her just to prove she’s real. Just to prove they both are.

Yang opens her mouth, pauses, and grins too widely to fake any kind of sobriety. She waggles a finger in Blake’s direction. “Na-ah-ah,” she says, forces her eyebrows into something stern; it doesn’t work too well. Relief coats Blake’s replying smile, but there’s a sliver of disappointment, too. “I’m not saying that word. Not _now._ I had like, a million cocktails.”

“A million, huh?” Blake doesn’t even know how to take the charmed expression away from herself. 

“Yeah, ballpark estimate.” Her smile transitions to a giggle, and she sits up alarmingly fast, tilting towards Blake after apparently misjudging the effort required to do so. “D’you wanna kiss me?”

“You’re wearing lipstick,” Blake points out, impish. “I don’t think it’s my shade.”

“Oh, even better,” Yang says, and cups the right side of Blake’s face, drawing her in at an angle; she presses a firm kiss to Blake’s left cheek, holds it and releases. Her gaze darts to it, laugh drawn out again. “Perfect,” she finishes, delighted with her work.

Blake’s brilliant smile only enunciates it, and Yang’s giggling travels through the air, contagious. “Take a picture,” Blake says, and Yang swipes over to her camera. 

She reaches out, glides her fingertips over Blake’s cheekbone, up her temple, guides her hair around the shell of her ear. It’s tender and slow, and the silence as she does so shifts from a feather to a vault, heavy and pregnant. Her tongue slips between her teeth, scorches her bottom lip. Blake’s irises can’t stop mimicking the curve of her mouth. 

She taps her thumb against the camera button, captures the imprint of her lips against Blake’s skin, and when their eyes lock again, Yang’s too drunk for an act - she bleeds desire, spills it over her dress like liquid from a broken a glass. Blake thumbs her necklace, smooth beneath its gold outline. 

And then Yang murmurs, eroticism coating every word, “I want to see you on your knees.” 

Blake’s already there in her head, bent over and whining. “Um,” she responds smartly, and Yang switches to a smirk, sin unraveling from her mouth. She places her hands flat against the cushions, lifts herself up with a grace Blake’s positive she shouldn’t possess in her current inebriated state - and then she leans in, tucks two fingers underneath Blake’s chin, and Blake’s thighs tremble on instinct, squeeze together.

“On your knees,” Yang repeats, and it’s an order Blake’ll beg her just to follow.

\--

Her elbows shake with the effort it takes to hold herself up, her lower spine snapping into a bow when Yang’s fingers hit deep inside of her and curl. She’s half-draped over Blake’s back, her other hand palming the curve of her ass, breasts pressed against her skin and her mouth sucking and nipping at every shadow of bone. She dips her other hand to Blake’s clit occasionally, gets her fingers wet, rubs her. It’s never quite enough. 

She keeps a steady pace, too slow to accomplish anything except build her to the brink of insanity - that’s what torture does to you, makes you crazy - adds a third finger, stretches her, makes her feel full as she clenches down. Yang grins against her spine, darkly amused by her soaked hand.

And then she pulls back, slips her fingers entirely out; Blake almost breaks down and cries, voice a choked whine in her throat. Yang laughs, and it’s only when her breath hits skin that Blake realizes where she is. “Fuck,” she moans shamelessly, “Yang, _fuck_ \--” 

Yang’s tongue darts out and licks the length of Blake’s cunt, thumbs spreading her open, fingers gripping at her thighs; drunk Yang is some kind of prodigy with her tongue, or maybe she’d just never thought to bend Blake over sober. There’s a talk they should have - _please,_ Blake imagines saying, _fuck me like this any time you want_ \- but she can’t even manage language anymore, devolving into moans with her elbows collapsing and her fingers wrapped around her pillow. 

She cums almost violently against Yang’s mouth, her entire body shattering, bones and veins vibrating until they collide with on another - and then she’s dragged down onto her side, rolled onto her back, and Yang slips three fingers straight into her again - a tease for a taste, not a continuation. 

“Baby,” Yang whispers into her ear, sucking on her drenched fingers between words. “I’m _so_ wet.” 

Blake sloppily kisses her mouth - filthy, chin still damp - dips her hand between Yang’s legs, palm coming away soaked. _Not always,_ she remembers Yang saying the morning after they’d met in response to Blake’s _service top._ Well, she’s getting that now.

“You,” she says, still breathless, “are the _fucking_ devil.” 

Yang grasps her wrist, guides her fingers impatiently. “Then _you,_ ” she says, grinding against Blake’s hand, “are _lucky_ to be fucking me.”

\--

Yang passes out, sleeps in late the next morning with her limbs stretched out in every direction, sex and tequila wafting from her skin. She’ll be hungover when she wakes up; she’ll shower in Blake’s bathroom, leave smelling like Blake’s shampoo.

Blake finds a lipstick stain smeared across her pillow, and decides she’ll leave it for a day.

\--

 **luce** _@yangingaround_ · 15m  
anyone see those pics of yang’s new necklace from the wrap party…...eyes emoji

 **oscar winner yang xiao long __** _@yangbang ·_ 14m  
_Replying to @yangingaround_  
YES,,, do you have theories. i mean the bitch never wears jewelry

 **luce** _@yangingaround_ · 12m  
_Replying to @yangbang_  
I WISH I DID!!! I’M ACTIVELY OPEN TO SUGGESTIONS

 **CAM __** _@againwithspring ·_ 10m  
_Replying to @yangingaround @yangbang_  
i saw someone else say its one of rubys but idk

 **oscar winner yang xiao long __** _@yangbang ·_ 9m  
_Replying to @againwithspring @yangingaround_  
can i say something controversial…. if that’s true, like it’s nice i guess? but boring

 **luce** _@yangingaround_ · 8m  
_Replying to @yangbang @againwithspring_  
i mean you’re right and you should say it

 **CAM __** _@againwithspring ·_ 7m  
_Replying to @yangingaround @yangbang_  
lmao we can always search the tour pics of ruby to see if she uses the same style. i think its just a purple fender

 **luce** _@yangingaround_ · 5m  
_Replying to @againwithspring @yangbang_  
cam you goddamn genius

 **oscar winner yang xiao long __** _@yangbang ·_ now  
_Replying to @yangingaround @againwithspring_  
ok i looked for five minutes but every guitar pick ruby uses is red that i can see so like….back to square one

\--

The opportunity arises in May. Pyrrha’s home from her location shoot, and it’s exactly what Nora’d been waiting for to throw a birthday party; it’s not complete without you, she’d told Pyrrha lovingly over a call, and Pyrrha’d laughed amicably. 

Blake’s got five complete songs and six more in various stages of dress (well, she’s got a hundred songs, but at the moment only eleven are special enough to release); two can’t quite find the right bass line, one’s missing a bridge, a different one might swap lead guitar for the keys. She isn’t worried; all things considered, she’s doing wildly better than she ever thought she would. And some of the nuances will ultimately come to the band’s experimentation and knowledge of their own instruments, anyway.

 _Spring break_ is what Yang keeps referring to her time off between films, saying it with a flourish and a wink like she’s headed to Cabofor a wet t-shirt contest. _Out of Fire_ doesn’t pick up for another month and a half; she’s starting promotions for a different film until then, a few talk shows and tours. It’s one she’d wrapped before she and Blake had even met, and vastly separated from her summer blockbusters, mega-franchises - it’s more contained, something Weiss keeps privately swearing she’ll be nominated for based on the premise alone. 

In May, it’s basically summer; Blake’s lounging on one of the lawn chairs by the pool, topless for an even tan. Yang thinks of taking a nipple into her mouth, following the valley between her breasts with her lips and down. Blake’s hair spills over the chair, forced away from the sweat at the back of her neck, and a pair of Yang’s aviators rest on the bridge of her nose. 

“Hey,” Yang says, feeling hot and covered; she’s wearing too many clothes, and she’s only in a tank top and shorts. Maybe she’s still wired from her workout. (She’s not, but one day she’ll have to tell the world about this, and she can’t have _all_ her stories beginning with ‘I was horny and she was hot.’)

“Hey,” Blake says, tilts her face with a smile. “What’s up?” 

“Pyrrha’s back in town, and Nora’s having a birthday party on Saturday,” Yang conveys, scrolling through the text. “She’s invited you.” 

Blake slips her sunglasses up, meets Yang’s stare with an intrigued excitement. “Really?”

“Yeah.” Yang drops her phone, works on tying her hair into a bun; the sun’s getting to her. That’s what she’ll tell herself for now. “She’s renting out _Delilah._ It’s near your apartment.” 

“Oh, yeah. I pass it all the time.” The implication of it finally dredges up, heaved from some dark corner. Blake pulls her lips into a pout. “It’s in public.” 

“ _But,_ ” Yang emphasizes, because they’re all in the business of secret-keeping and of _course_ Nora’s thought this through, “she’s invited Weiss and Ruby, too. She _really_ wants you to come - she’s dying to meet you, and she thinks it’ll be harder to draw lines between the four of us.” 

It’s an explanation that Blake seems touched by, as if she’d never imagined herself as someone to make an effort for. Adam’s further away every day, but he’s never gone. Yang’s always working on his influence. She says hesitantly, “Are you sure?” 

“Am I sure about what?” 

“Like, do you think that’s enough?” 

“Oh.” Yang rolls her neck on her shoulders, attempting to find the line between what’s honest and what’s worth taking risks for. She admits, “Yeah. I do. I think - I mean, _every_ girl I get spotted with becomes a rumor at _some_ point, so I won’t be surprised if there’s a rumor afterward, but I don’t think it’ll have weight. They’ll probably link me to Weiss, too.” She actively grimaces at that one. 

Her reasoning apparently only needs a momentary consideration. “Okay,” Blake agrees simply, smile blossoming; Yang hopes it’s a mark of trust. “That’d be fun. It’d be nice to meet your friends.” 

“Great.” She beams at her screen as she texts back, acting as their RSVP. Getting Weiss and Ruby to agree won’t be hard - Ruby loves Yang’s friends, and Weiss loves - well. Maybe that’s too strong a word. _Likes,_ definitely. “Nora’s notorious about her guest lists - there probably won’t be anyone there she doesn’t trust wholeheartedly.” 

“Isn’t she the one who leaked different fake engagement stories to her friends to see who snitched to the press?” Blake sounds both appreciative of the genius and slightly afraid. 

“Yep.” Yang remembers that week - it’d been a bloodbath. One of her friends from high school, raking in extra money on the side. “Brutal, but it worked.” 

_YESSSSS,_ Nora replies. _TELL HER TO LOOK HOT FOR U!!!!!!_

_shut up she always looks hot. go harass someone else until saturday_

_LOVE U!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!_

Blake sighs, stretches her arms overhead, searching for relief in the breeze; it’s extremely distracting of a motion, and Yang feels the sun in her throat, draining the water from her body. Blake’s ribs extend underneath her skin with every breath; her bikini bottoms are low on her hips, material silky and black. 

“Ugh,” Yang says to nobody, and the corner of Blake’s mouth curls, all cheshire cat and deliberate.

\--

Ruby arrives home on Thursday, has a driver pick her up from LAX; she gets in at eight in the morning, and the traffic both ways would’ve made the trip at least three hours for Yang. Ruby doesn’t blame her in the slightest - I can’t even _drive,_ she’d said, so it’s not like I’m ever gonna pick _you_ up at the airport. 

It’d been a running joke, but now - now - Yang stares at Blake’s bare back, thinks about _her_ being the one waiting at the curb, wearing a worn-in half-smile with a single hand on the steering wheel. Her heart crushes in on itself at the image, the domesticity. They’re not far enough for that kind of imagination - sure, Blake stays over somewhat often, waits for Yang to make her tea in the morning after being banned from touching the appliances, has a toothbrush in her holder - but picking someone up at the airport? That’s love. She’ll recover that fantasy when it’s earned.

Ruby calls when she’s in the car, bubbly and vivacious despite the red-eye and and exhaustion. “Yang!” she exclaims into the phone, so shockingly loud that Yang actually winces and Blake grumbles irritatedly from beside her. “I’m on my way, I’m _so_ excited to see you!” 

“Yeah, about that,” Yang says, careful to keep her voice low and monitored. But Ruby’s her sister; the sheepishness shines through. “So, I’m like - I’m not alone.” 

There’s a brief pause, only sounds coming through the speaker those of traffic jams, and then she says, “Oh my God - is _Blake_ there?” 

“Yeah.” 

“That’s _awesome!_ ” Ruby can’t seem to contain herself. “I can’t wait to meet her - God, tell her I love _Painting the Town._ It’s so fun.” 

Blake’s mouth flicks at the corners; Yang thumbs her bottom lip, silently telling her _caught._ “I’ll let her know when she’s awake. How was the flight?” 

Ruby rambles on for another few minutes; she’s so easy to talk to - she hates complaining more than ninety-nine percent of people, and every anecdote she drops is overwhelmingly positive. She isn’t new to fame, but she often acts like it; it’s a mindset Yang thinks more people need to retain. Humbleness. 

She hangs up soon after - she’s always got people to call, and Yang knows they’ll _all_ answer despite the time; that’s just who Ruby is, the kind of impact she has - and Blake finally cracks an eye open. “How long do we have?” she asks, drowning in sleep. 

“About an hour and a half,” Yang says, pulling up her maps app just to double-check. “Oh. Two, actually; there’s an accident on the four-oh-five.” 

“There’s always an accident on the four-oh-five.” 

“True.” 

Blake shifts closer, curls into Yang’s side, fits her head in the crook of her neck; Yang wraps an arm around her automatically. She’s worth staying in bed for, and Yang’s never found someone to say that about and mean it. “Wake me up in an hour.” 

“Okay.” Blake’s hair smells like lavender - she’s using Yang’s shampoo. She kisses the crown of her head, lingers, thinks of rolling over and pressing her lips to every inch of skin, thinks of reveling in her soul like it’s something tangible. “I will.” 

There’s something else that drifts away in the silence, and the both of them hear it but don’t say a word.

\--

Ruby actually hugs Blake _first._

She crushes Blake in her arms, manages to get a breathless, surprised laugh out of it. Blake pats her on the back, startled but amused. “Blake, I’m _so_ excited to meet you - thanks for saving my sister from the life of a spinster or whatever.” 

“ _Excuse_ me,” Yang says, but her threat stands no case against Blake’s snickering, something Ruby easily pinpoints. She’s aware of Yang’s habits, and these are entirely new. 

“It’s nice to meet you, too,” Blake says, golden eyes alight in the morning sun as they meet Yang’s over Ruby’s shoulder. Her smile plays at both corners unevenly; it’s how Yang knows it’s real. “I’ve heard a lot about you. I loved your last album.” 

It’s fortunately not a lie - they’re in very different genres; Ruby’s the epitome of pop, Top-100 hits, songs that make you feel good as you listen to them without the requirement of something deeper. There’s a severe lack of those, Blake thinks, and now it’s easy to see why Ruby’s are so popular - they’re not fake. It’s genuinely how she feels, what she’s interested in. 

“Oh, thanks!” Ruby finally pulls away, beaming so brightly it’s like she’s battery-powered. “Did Yang tell you how much I love _Painting the Town?_ I’m serious. It’s just so _cool_ \- what a vibe. I love it.” 

“Thanks,” Blake says warmly. “I appreciate it.” 

Ruby tugs Yang into a hug next; Yang lifts her straight off the ground, squeezes her tightly. Ruby chokes on an inhale, whacking Yang’s arm; this is a moment for sibling banter, and Blake gets the feeling that if she weren’t there, Ruby’d be in a headlock. But Yang sets her down, safe and sound, and within the instant she’s spinning on her heel, finger pointed in Blake’s direction.

“Blake Belladonna,” Ruby says dramatically, and maybe that’s something that runs in the family. “Do we need to have the talk about not breaking my sister’s heart?” 

Blake stalls in place, attempting to comprehend the abrupt shift in tone and conversation - _you always run,_ she hears Adam’s voice in her head, stomach twisting violently - but Ruby slips back in a laugh a second later, unable to hold a joke that long, none the wiser to trauma. “I’m kidding. Can you imagine? I mean like, obviously don’t do that, but geez. I’d never. She’d kill me!”

“I’ll kill you anyway.” Yang rolls her eyes, picks one of Ruby’s suitcases up off the doorstep, but the adoration underneath her words is unmistakable. “C’mon, punk. Get your crap inside before it melts out here. I _know_ you’ve got a chocolate bar stashed somewhere.” 

Ruby gasps, scrambling for the luggage apparently filled with candy bars; Blake finds Yang’s stare and shrugs a shoulder lightly. 

_I won’t,_ she mouths, and right then it becomes a promise she makes to herself.

\--

Weiss can’t stop pacing. 

“I’m still uncertain,” she’s saying over and over, echoing with every footfall. They’re all tucked in Yang’s master bathroom; Weiss is the only one actually dressed, eyeliner faint and tasteful, blush accenting her cheekbones, white hair in a spiraling ponytail. “It seems so _risky_. Yang, how does your publicist feel about this?” 

“Great,” Yang answers, untempered and bored as she applies her eyeliner. Her publicist isn’t there to control her life decisions, only the narrative surrounding them. “She’s well aware, and on the _extremely_ off-chance Blake is asked about, the story she’s going with is that Ruby and Blake are friends. They both run in the same industry. It makes sense.” 

Weiss gnaws on her bottom lip; it pops out of her mouth, red and imprinted. “But what if--” 

“Weiss, seriously,” Ruby interrupts, “I know it’s like, your _job_ to worry about stuff, but it’s gonna be fine. Honestly, until they’re caught making out, nobody important is gonna believe it anyway.” 

“That’s sadly true,” Blake murmurs, coating her lashes until they’re thick and full. Yang tosses her a look of agreement in the mirror as if to say _Oh, I know._ “And even then, they’ll probably think we’re just close friends.”

“They will _not._ ” Weiss tuts, picks imaginary lint from her dress - she doesn’t seem to know what to do with her hands, finally settling them on her hips. “You’re both beautiful, neither of you are in the closet - why _wouldn’t_ people assume?” 

“I have about six extra years on you there, Weiss,” Yang says, running a thumb underneath Blake’s bottom lip, fixing the line of her lipstick. “People like their ideas of us. I’ll probably break half my fans’ hearts when this comes out - they’re convinced Pyrrha and I have some secret relationship.” 

Blake laughs, the sound bouncing around the room. “What about Jaune?” 

Yang’s applying her own lipstick; they aren’t wearing the same shade, but that’ll only be a problem later in the night when they’re too drunk to fix it. “They think he’s her gay beard.” 

“Oh my God.” 

The tapping of Weiss’s foot is the only thing that alerts them to her continued dissatisfaction. Her stilettos - a grey-silver matching the color of her dress - don’t put her at any intimidating height, but do give her a sense of importance. She says, “Fine. I’m letting it go. But just - be _careful._ ”

“And _you,_ ” Blake counters back, “please _relax_.” 

Weiss could dehydrate a man with the dryness of her stare, pierced in cynicism. “Oh, I’m _sure_ I’ll accomplish that.”

They all elect to ignore her; there’s only so much they can do to overcome Weiss’s danger sense. “Check me,” Yang asks one final time, and Blake dulls the sharp points of her eyeliner to a fade - she’s beautiful, she’s perfect - but her mouth is _right there,_ wickedly red and beckoning, and Blake can’t help herself - she captures her lips lightly, careful to keep their hues from blending, and fortunately they remain their rightful colors upon pulling back.

Ruby takes it in with a grin; Weiss watches her watch them, a rising pink to her cheeks as she turns away.

\--

 _Delilah_ doesn’t look like much from the outside: situated on Santa Monica Boulevard, the all-white exterior with a window decal reading the lounge’s name hardly speaks to great expectations. The inside, on the other hand, somehow reminds Blake of a speakeasy - the olive velvet couches lining the walls, their counterpart booths in red accenting the paneling interspersed with brick, the industrial lighting fixtures coating it all in a dim, amber glow--

“Holy _shit_ ,” Nora screams upon greeting them by the square bar in the middle of the room, cocktail glass tucked between her fingers. “You’re both so fucking _stunning,_ oh my _God,_ Blake, look at you, oh my _God_ \--”

Blake’s in a long-sleeved maxi dress, a deep violet with a slit straight up her thigh, near-sheer skirt underneath to cover the view of anything too interesting; the collar cut dips between her breasts, bares only a hint of cleavage. Yang’s the opposite, a vision in gold - a tight bodice, a _lot_ of cleavage, straps that lead to an open back, and a hem that stops at mid-thigh. Her hair’s left wild, hotly untameable, and her necklace sits where it always does - these days, she rarely leaves the house without it.

“Happy Birthday! Thanks for inviting me,” Blake greets just as enthusiastically, caught off-guard by Nora’s short stature and blisteringly extroverted personality. There’s a charm to her in spite of it, though. “ _And_ Weiss, and Ruby.” 

“It takes a village,” Nora tells her seriously. “Have you met Pyrrha yet? She’ll die. She used to have a crush on you. She doesn’t know yet, right?” she directs at Yang. “That Blake’s your girlfriend?” 

Blake covers her mouth with her hand; Yang’s palm briefly presses against her lower back and away. “How much have you had to drink?” Yang prods accusingly, narrow of her eyes less a threat than it could be. Ah, _girlfriend._ They haven’t really nailed down that label yet, though that’s definitely what it is. In all honesty, Blake’s not sure what either of them are waiting for. 

Nora only laughs in response. “Not enough,” she says, and shoves them helpfully towards the bar. “Ask for a Valkyrie.” 

Weiss and Ruby trail behind after their own _hellos_ , gossiping about the rest of the crowd. Yang laughs at the vision - Weiss’s air of importance is so fierce, there’s no way she’s getting through the night undetected - and Yang signals the bartender for four _Valkyries,_ whatever the hell those are. She passes them around, and Ruby grimaces - she’s not the biggest fan of hard liquor, but accepts anyway - and then a photographer taps her on the shoulder, gestures for them all to pose together. 

It isn’t the slightest bit alarming; he’s one of Nora’s friends, hired for her personal events. It’s her way to both document her nights and control their narrative. Yang slips an arm around Blake’s waist, careful to keep aloof, and Ruby tucks into Blake’s other side, smile wide and sparkling. The flash goes off - there’s a thrill to the illumination of it; she’s never been so aware of her fingers - but he seems none the wiser, thanking them before wandering off to shoot other new arrivals. 

That’s not what renders her stone, metal, other things structural and immovable - it’s the fact that it’s the first picture of the two of them at a public event, despite the distractions. It’s the fact that she’s an actress without a poker face, and Blake’s there at all because she’s somehow become the biggest part of Yang’s life.

Blake catches the strange sequence of expressions - there’s an astonishment, an incredulity, the space around them and the crowd compressed into nothing but voyeurs - and then Blake’s asking, “What is it?” 

“People are gonna point to this,” Yang whispers breathlessly, lifting her glass to her lips. Her lipstick leaves a mark. “One day, when this - when people know about us, they’re gonna point to that picture. And I guess - I guess it just - overwhelmed me.” 

“You’re so far ahead,” Blake says, nothing but endeared regardless of it.

“Baby,” Yang says, “you have no idea.” 

\--

Pyrrha’s seated at a booth in the corner; her red dress nearly blends in with the color of the the walls, her own hair, and she’s wrapped up in a conversation with Jaune, martini glass nearly empty in front of her. The olive sits on its skewer, pimento missing. There’s an odd, uncomfortable tension between them that Yang spots almost instantly - actors can keep almost anything hidden, except from other actors.

Whatever it is, it dissipates the split second Pyrrha meets her eyes across the room, mouth dropping into a pretty _o-_ shape. Blake’s a step behind, rating fast food chains with Ruby, who’s declared that they’re only allowed to answer based on taste between one to four a.m. - they’re currently stuck in a heated debate over Wendy’s, though she’s not paying attention to the specifics. Weiss seems sickened by the very idea of curly fries.

Pyrrha hasn’t noticed the additions. She nearly shoves Jaune out of the booth in her haste to get to Yang; he stands ungracefully, trailing after her in his awkward, lanky way. 

And the Pyrrha hits her like a train, flinging her arms around Yang’s neck and squeezing. “Look at _you!_ ” she squeals, overly enthusiastic - then again, it _has_ been nearly four months. She pulls back, examines her top to bottom. “God, Yang, I missed you to _death._ You look _incredible_ \- how have you--” 

_Been,_ Yang guesses is the supposed ending to that question, but Pyrrha catches sight of Blake and the entirety of the English language sinks to the bottom of her skull - she stands solid, her hands wrapped around Yang’s shoulders and her expression shorting out like a broken fuse. 

The other three haven’t noticed, chatting in a half-circle just behind them - they’d clearly been intending to give the reunion its own moment - and Pyrrha leans in close, the stars of Hollywood Boulevard torn up and rotating in her eyes. She whispers, “Yang. Holy shit. Do you know who’s behind you?”

Yang’s leisurely crawl into a smirk takes far too long for Pyrrha to notice. “You mean the girl talking to Ruby?” 

“To--” Pyrrha starts, stops, drops it all. “Wait--”

Yang turns around, reaches out, splays her fingers briefly over Blake’s shoulder blade; she looks over immediately, takes the touch as the signal it’s meant to be. Yang shifts back to face Pyrrha, smug to the point of predatory, Blake stepping up to her side. 

“Hi,” Blake says warmly, extending a hand. She’s incredible under pressure, under flashing lights and fame. “I’m Blake. I’ve heard a lot about you.” 

It’s a meeting worthy of documentation - Yang’d whip out her phone and post it to her Instastory if it wouldn’t count as self-sabotage - and Pyrrha doesn’t seem to know how to do anything but stare, even as she grasps Blake’s hand back; maybe the empty glass on the table isn’t her first. She says stutteringly, “I - I wish I could say the same,” and then startles herself into clarity. “Oh my God, not that I - I know who you _are,_ I just meant that I - wasn’t aware of - of your…” she trails off, gaze finally returning to Yang who hears only the sound of a cocking gun. “You _bitch._ ” 

Yang nearly chokes on her drink, pressing her wrist to her mouth. “ _Me?_ ” she says, mock-outrage. “ _You_ were the one who had to be on location for like ten years--”

“Blake,” Pyrrha interrupts, her smile too angelic for the tone of it, “I know we just met - huge fan, by the way - but would you mind if I murdered your girlfriend?” 

“I’d never dream of getting between such close friends,” she says, smirks at Yang’s hanging jaw and redirects her words. There’s that label again. “Oh, no, Xiao Long. You’re on your own.” 

“Fair enough,” Yang says, playfully disgruntled, and extends her glass. “Hold my - whatever the fuck this is. What’s in this? Anybody know?” 

“Rum,” Jaune chimes in helpfully. “About six different kinds, I think, if the smell is anything to go by. Hi, Blake, it’s nice to meet you. Jaune Arc.” 

It seems to be the icebreaker necessary to spare Yang’s life - Ruby follows in with a greeting and an introduction, Weiss at her heels - they grasp hands--

“It’s a pleasure,” Weiss says, delicate without being breakable. Pyrrha looks somewhat struck by her demeanor, her dress. “I enjoyed your performance in _Achilles._ ” 

“Thanks,” Pyrrha replies, but Yang catches the downward twitch at the corner of her mouth, the miniscule way her eyebrows sink. “The pleasure’s all mine.” 

There’s no reason for the expected response to hold such weight. Blake leans against Yang’s side and whispers, “What did you say she was? ‘Unspecified gay’?” 

“Yep.”

“I think she’s pretty gay.”

“Clearly,” Yang responds under her breath, and lifts her glass to her mouth, throat constricting around the burn of spiced rum. There are rules to this: not the existence of tension itself, but what to do when it snaps.

In the end, Pyrrha jerks her into another hug and says, _you’re still a bitch, but I’m happy for you._

\--

Aside from the night they’d met, Blake’s never been drunk with her. 

It shouldn’t matter, and it wouldn’t, if there weren’t memories gnawing at her spinal cord like the imprints of fingerprints, the shattering of glass, and the smell of vodka. 

If it weren’t a party. If she weren’t something being _looked_ at.

She shouldn’t do it - Yang deserves better, deserves the benefit of the doubt - but at the same time, she _needs_ to. For her own sanity, peace of mind. She wants her own voice to shut up the demons for once, not dangle blindly from the thread of somebody else’s.

Blake’s the one who places her fingers on Yang’s wrist, stops her mid-order. “Shots,” she says, and gets a side-eye in response.

“I thought we were trying to be _good,_ ” Yang says with a hint of mirth, low as to not be overheard. “Aren’t we behaving tonight?” 

“No,” Blake says, stuns Yang slightly with her cool amusement, her reckless uncovering. “It’s a party. I’m bored of all that. Let’s see this wild side of yours, _Yang_.” 

The way she wraps her tongue around Yang’s name - goosebumps prickle underneath her palm, peppering the stretch of Yang’s arms as a shiver works through her body. Her irises absorb the color of the light, flash red with every beat of the music. Blake’s always known about the danger in her, about the chaos and the anger. What she doesn’t know is what it looks like when it’s forced out of hiding.

The bartender lays them out in a row. Yang’s expression settles darkly, regards her with a type of opening, the clattering of padlocks, bolt cutters on chains. It’s villainous, provocative. The glass slips between her fingers, and the liquid glides down her throat without a hint of backlash. 

“Belladonna,” she says, tongue wetting her lips with a purpose, “you’re on.” 

\--

The drunker they get, the closer the room becomes. Filled with hot, compressed air, salt on bodies and glass rims. Darkness leaves them indistinguishable, but they’re drawn to corners regardless of it. Weiss and Ruby stick nearby, mingling with Pyrrha and Jaune; that’s too many wandering eyes to keep track of, Yang says, covers Blake’s body against a wall. I don’t care what other people are looking at, unless it’s you. 

“Yang,” Blake murmurs, fingers curled around her shoulders. She’s waiting for her own warning bells, her flight instincts, and she isn’t finding them. The music kicks in, steady beats and a snapping until the drop, and Blake thinks about finding her thigh and grinding down.

“God, you’re beautiful,” Yang murmurs, mouth against her ear; the compliment seems to be one of drunk Yang’s favorites. She’s swaying to the tune, too, susceptible. “I’d fuck you here if we could get away with it.” 

“Jesus.” She’s as bold as ever, but they’re still in public and definitely on the verge of lines. “Yang--” 

“Is this what you wanted?” Her voice sounds like how sex feels, the thick and hot of throbbing pressure. The melody builds, builds, builds; it’s not the only thing. “I’m drunk. And I don’t care about a single thing in this universe except you.” 

“Yeah,” Blake whispers, needy and restless; she breaks for Yang’s lips, kisses her between flashing strobe lights and pounding bass; her heart spikes into her head, drops into her stomach. Safety remains ever-present, even in the midst of threat. She can’t stop _wanting._ “Fuck.” 

“Careful, sweetheart.” There’s a fog drifting in the from the ceiling; the coastline rolls between her legs. Yang nips at the shell of her ear; the music picks up again and this time it doesn’t stop. “We’re supposed to be _careful,_ remember? People are watching.” 

If anything were going to do it, it’d be that. Her eyelids flutter open; Yang presses her mouth to Blake’s jaw, brushes lips before pulling away, tongue soaked with rum. There aren’t any signs and none will manifest, because Yang isn’t him, and Blake matters more than the impressions of strangers in a crowded room.

“Yang,” Blake says softly, fingers toying with the scrunch of fabric at her waist, “if I - if I wanted to leave because I felt - uncomfortable, would you be mad?” 

Yang’s expression drops from flirtatious to concerned in the span of a lightning strike, worry swallowing her face. She flutters around Blake’s face, strokes her thumbs under her eyes as if checking for injury. “Oh, baby, no,” she murmurs, devastation to her voice. “No, of course I wouldn’t - do you want to go? Get some water, air?” 

Even drunk out of her mind, she’s the polar opposite of every experience Blake’s ever had; she rests her palms against that backs of Yang’s hands, cups them and breathes. “No,” she says with finality. “I’m okay. I’m just - Adam used to take me to parties, show me off like the next big thing. And I know that’s not what you’re doing, but…” she trails out, drops her words. It’s hard to keep her own inebriated thoughts in order, but Yang’s able to catch them, hand them back to her.

“It’s nice to hear it said aloud, right?” she finishes quietly, and presses a tender kiss to Blake’s mouth. “If you _ever_ feel - feel uncomfortable, or unsafe, or - or anything like that, I want you to tell me, okay? I’m never - I’m - won’t be ‘mad’ at you.” She places vicious quotes around the concept without needing to gesture for it. “And it makes me sick that he - that he _ever_ was.” 

Weiss is staring, lines of her face saturated with distress. They aren’t causing a scene - not even close, considering the burlesque dancers strutting across the small stage somewhere behind them - but she’s right to; they’ve definitely been seen, though not by anyone important enough or stupid enough to capture it. Blake inhales unsteadily. “Thanks,” she says, kisses Yang again when lights dip, leaving them to shadow. “I - yeah. It’s just nice to hear.” 

Yang softens her anxiety with a gentle smile. “I’d - I’d _never_ do that to you,” she says, sighs quietly. “You aren’t a - you know - you’re not _mine._ Not like that. Not like you’re a _thing._ ” 

Oh, they’re so close; prying boards from windows, knocking out bricks. “Not like that?” she asks, poignant and purposeful, and Yang’s eyes dart between her own. “But like something else?”

Will she take the challenge, won’t she - sober Yang would’ve agonized, stubborn against the bait but desperate for the hook - drunk Yang merely offers her a laugh, hair draping her shoulder like a steady rain. There’s no fight to her, nothing mimicking denial. _Hopeless,_ Blake reads in her endearment, foreheads bumping together. _You’re hopeless._

“Blake,” Yang says, relinquishes her name with such devotion that she swears it sets her free. “You’re in my fucking _soul._ ”

\--

They leave around two a.m., slipping into black cars in premeditated pairs. Weiss doesn’t look at them as she flattens her dress against the backs of her thighs, sliding onto the seat. The paparazzi are waiting where they can - flashes strike, bulbs bursting as Yang’s name is called like they’re praying to her, though she knows it’s anything but. 

Her head lolls against the leather seat; Ruby’s humming to herself, echo of the song that’d been playing when they’d left. She hasn’t said much, but there’s something _off_ to her, silence too deliberate to be fueled by distraction. 

“Hey,” Yang says, forcing her stare to focus. Blake’s car disappears from view, but they’re headed to the same place. “You okay?” 

It’s the delayed heavy sigh that nudges Yang’s posture straight, more attentive. Ruby says, “Weiss - has feelings for me.” 

“Duh,” Yang says, tactless with her blood doused in alcohol. “She’s a bitch to everyone who isn’t you.” 

“She’s not a _bitch._ ” Ruby rolls her eyes. “She’s just guarded.” 

“Tomato, to-mah-to.” 

“You’re such a dumb drunk,” she says, but her lips crook into the signs of a laugh before falling again. “She actually _told_ me. I felt bad letting her down.” 

Oh, that’s actually _not_ where Yang thought this conversation was going; the car hits a bump in the road, jarring her brain back into some semblance of clarity. “Wait,” she says, holds out a hand. “You rejected Weiss?” 

“Yeah.” Ruby shrugs a shoulder half-heartedly. “It’s just...not really my thing. Romance. And sex.” 

_Obviously,_ Yang thinks, like she’s known all along and just needed it said aloud to access. “Oh,” she says, staring as it all unlocks, a key sliding in and rotating. Her mouth drops open, filled to the brim. “ _Oh,_ yeah. Yeah! Okay. Okay. That makes sense. Yeah.” 

Ruby bursts into laughter, also a little tipsy and comforted by the reaction. “I never really thought I’d have to deal with it,” she admits, covering Yang’s hand with her own, clasping it tightly. “I feel bad. D’you think I like, broke her heart?” 

“Nah,” Yang says, more concerned with her sister’s comfort than Weiss’s feelings. “I think she’ll be fine. It’s not like - like it’s not like you just don’t like _her,_ right? You don’t like anybody.” 

“Yeah,” Ruby affirms, and there’s that smile again, free in its simplicity. “Exactly.” 

“Great.” Yang’s head tilts back to the window, grin spreading in response. “Makes my big sister role _so_ much easier.” 

There’s a pressure against her shoulder, red hair soft against her skin. Ruby’s head still fits perfectly in the crook of her neck, just as it did when they were kids. 

\--

They’re dropped off in Blake’s garage, making the switch. Ruby steels herself, gets in with Weiss, explanations more coherent - they aren’t owed, but, Yang knows, Ruby genuinely cherishes Weiss as a friend. She hopes she won’t have to kick Weiss’s ass. 

“Oh, I heard,” Blake says, taking her hand in the elevator, body pressed against Yang’s chest. She’s having a hard time standing straight. “Weiss isn’t upset. She’s just - confused. Or something.” 

“We’ll get the story another day,” Yang says, the elevator dinging as it signals Blake’s floor. There are more important things at hand - Blake’s hesitance, that’s one; boundaries she’s kept to herself, that’s another. They need to _talk._

Blake senses the questions piled on Yang’s tongue as if kissing her is enough to get a taste of them; she lets the door close behind them, flicks the lock, and then she buries herself again in Yang’s arms. It’s always been easier for Blake to tell the truth with her eyes shut. 

“I’m sorry,” she whispers. “I didn’t mean to make you worry.” 

“It’s not about that,” Yang says, hoping her words aren’t as slurred as they sound in her head. “It’s about - I don’t - I never want to make you feel _anything_ like how - how _he_ made you feel.” 

“You don’t.” Her exhale shudders through her chest, makes her seem small and collapsable. “I - I’m not afraid of you. I’m not afraid you’ll do what he did, or - or anything I don’t want you to do. But I needed to be _sure._ ” Her fingers graze skin, one pinky skating under the strap of Yang’s dress. Sometimes she just needs to be held. “You’re _nothing_ like him, but sometimes I feel like - like I don’t know someone until I’ve seen them out of control.” 

This is a moment - Blake’s drunk and speaking with insinuation. Maybe the leap comes more naturally with Yang’s brain so hyper-focused on the blurry edges, the missing corner pieces. “The first time he hit you,” Yang murmurs back, touch softer than sunlight against her spine, “was he drunk?” 

Blake tongues the right side of her lip, the previous pocket of a cut, inside of her mouth sinking into her teeth and the taste of blood. She remembers the night, but she’s drunk and it’s almost muted, coated in a hazy film. Remembers the smashing of a vodka bottle, his fingers balled into a fist. “Yeah,” she says, safe in the comfort of Yang’s arms. “He was - mad. He thought I - thought I flirted with some other guy at a party.”

The sigh that exits Yang’s mouth battles fury - she pulls away, ashamed of herself and the tension of her wrists. She says, “I’m sorry. I’m trying - I don’t want to be angry. But I am. I’m so fucking _angry_ at him.” She gently cups Blake’s face again, locks their gazes as if trying to convey her sincerity through stare alone. Like it’s the one place she knows Blake’ll believe the truth. “He - he _never_ should’ve touched you, Blake. Never. In a million years.” 

“I know,” Blake says, but for Yang it’s not enough.

Her face grows adorably frustrated - the intensity of of her blown pupils, not empty like Adam’s but the safety of a hiding place; the tender way her fingers curl and glide, leaving space for exits - Blake doesn’t want to smile, inappropriate in tone, but she’s never felt more secure. “Do you want me to beat his ass?” Yang asks, fiercely passionate, and this is the conclusion she’s drunkenly ended up on. “I’ll do it. I’ll beat his ass. He’s just some - some musicexecutive _bitch_. I’m _Yang Xiao Long!_ Fuck him! I hate him! God!” She tears her arms away, throws them in the air, alcohol dictating all of her theatrical reactions. “Ugh!” 

That’s the final line; Blake falls over it and lets laughter spill out of her mouth, shoulders shaking and lips splitting into a smile. “I love you,” she says, and laughs even more, a tune of delight upon hearing her own admission. She’s known all along. They both have. “Yang, I fucking love you. I’m in love with you.” 

Yang freezes in place, arms back at her sides and her hands open and lax. Her expression reads preciously lost, disarmed and disbelieving; she’s just _staring,_ eyes wide and reflecting sunsets and fireflies. She’s the most beautiful art Blake’s ever seen in her life; she’s the most haunting melody Blake’s ever heard. She says waveringly, “You - what?” 

“Yeah.” Blake’s cheeks hurt from the stretch of her grin, too wide to cover teeth. “I do.”

Yang’s silent another moment, neurons firing slowly, processing power absent in her inebriation. “Am I drunk and hallucinating?” she accuses bluntly, and that’s all it takes to send Blake back into laughter. 

Her apartment sits dark, nothing foreboding hidden in the night, no monster darting into shadow. Now she finds contentment in place of fear. “No,” she giggles, steps forward, palms curling against Yang’s neck, fingers linking. She drifts Yang’s forehead down to hers, bumps them together. “I love you, you drunk moron.”

“Oh my God,” Yang breathes out, pupils flickering between her eyes. It’s almost three months to the day, and they’re where they’d started out, standing in Blake’s entryway with their bodies close and their limbs tangled, night sky inhaled into the room; there’s the unobstructed moon, the glittering stars melting into sea. Los Angeles spirals into its pieces, opaque whirlwind of fracturing color and sound and light. Yang swallows, looks like she’s about to speak, and then crashes against Blake’s mouth; she kisses in that wild, all-consuming way that leaves no room for doubt of her intention; her thumbs press against Blake’s cheeks, fingertips sliding against her scalp, tongue slipping between her lips. She barely has breath, barely remembers the purpose of it. She breaks away, gasping, and murmurs, “I love you.” 

“I know,” Blake says. Her smile’s permanently affixed to her face. “I know you do.” 

“I love you more than any love that has ever existed,” she says, an impassioned sentiment obviously built from alcohol yet somehow crafted masterfully. “ _Blake_. I - I know we’re both drunk, but I - I could’ve said this the moment I met you.” 

“I know,” Blake says again, this time with the unfamiliar sting of tears. They’re happy; she’s not used to those. “I could’ve, too. Like you’re in my soul.” 

“Like you’re in my soul,” Yang echoes, keeps falling into her mouth, lipstick breaking from its lines and smearing. It’s impossible to get enough - Blake’s taking unsteady steps back, finally hitting her couch, hands flying out to hold herself up - Yang descends over her like the sunset closing against the skyline, like a wave striking sand and spraying--

Sex has never felt so much like a symphony, so visionary and vibrant; Yang knows what she likes better than Blake can even put into words, leaving no need for directions. Yang keeps both Blake’s dress and heels on, follows the slit with her fingers, dips under the skirt to the lace of her underwear - feels the heat of her through the fabric, the wet - and then she sucks Blake’s bottom lip into her mouth, slow and purposeful, teeth scraping across as she releases it only to chase with her tongue, licking through Blake’s mouth. She’s teasing her - rubbing lightly, forcing the shifting of Blake’s hips for friction, blinding anticipation - and then she finds the band, tugs Blake’s underwear down her thighs, lets her kick them to the floor. 

She’s still pressed against the back of the couch, hands gripping the frame - Yang’s gaze drops deliberately from her eyes to her mouth, to her chest and down - she spreads the fabric, reveals her cunt, and her throat constricts around a moan when she touches Blake bare, fingers coming away slick. Blake jerks automatically, desperate for circles around her clit, aching for pressure inside of her. 

Yang’s still in her own dress, and she isn’t making any moves to take it off. There’s something _dirtier_ about it like this: Yang’s clothes are worth thousands of dollars at the very least, and here she is with her thighs damp and guiding Blake’s hand beneath, murmuring _touch me._ Her fingers slide easily inside of Blake at the same time, so wet it’s almost embarrassing, and she adds a third, pumps them passive and lazy - Blake whines, frustrated, unable to focus - she’s left possessed and devouring, grinding down onto Yang’s hand, clit slipping across her thumb.

“I love watching you fuck yourself on me,” Yang utters darkly against her ear, annoyingly composed as Blake fights to even stand. “Do you want to cum, baby?” 

“Please,” she chokes, full and desperate. Nobody brings her as high as Yang does, and definitely never as quickly. She’s soaking Yang’s palm. “Please.” 

Yang thrusts her fingers just as Blake sinks down, curls them roughly until Blake throws her head back with her lips parted in a soundless, strangled moan, rubs her clit in turn - dimly, Blake realizes Yang’s grinding onto _her_ hand, too, but it’s careless, like she’s just edging until she can get Blake properly underneath her--

“I want you to cum,” Yang whispers with breath like fire. Her skin is melting, so are the walls, everything’s slick and made of oil - she swears she’s never had an orgasm until Yang, never felt her body rolling and crashing like the ocean, never watched the world caving in with the stars rocksliding - Yang lifts one of her legs by the thigh, and Blake follows the prompt, wrapping it around her waist--

She doesn’t even recognize her own moan, too far gone out of her head - she’s hearing Yang’s breathless gasp like music, convulsing around her fingers - she’s cumming so hard she’s probably ruined _both_ of their dresses - but Yang doesn’t stop, just slows her pace until Blake’s eyes aren’t rolling back, until she can open them and _see,_ and then--

Yang sucks them into her mouth, one at a time, cum stringing between her fingers and her smirk too wet for her own tongue. 

“Bedroom,” Blake manages, because she’s afraid she might actually pass out, break a heel and disintegrate.

Her dress is tossed haphazardly by her closet; she slips off Yang’s with a surprisingly steady hand. Their heels lay discarded by the door. “Lie down,” Yang says softly, and Blake does as she’s told, shivering in apprehension as Yang’s thighs slot into place around either side of her head. She digs the tips of her fingers into Yang’s hips immediately, scrapes across her thighs, finally settles on her ass - he tongue flicks out, tastes cum on her clit - her lips glisten, messy and soaked through - and then she licks her from bottom to top, tugging Yang’s cunt closer to her mouth, wrapping around her clit and sucking. 

Yang gasps above her, one of her hands tangling through Blake’s hair and cupping the back of her head - she grinds down, thigh muscles trembling with the effort it’s taking to hold herself up, ride Blake’s tongue - she’s dripping over Blake’s nose, chin, but Blake’s primal in her senses, devolving to only taste, smell - Yang’s so sweet when she’s cumming into Blake’s mouth, tugging sharply on her hair, moaning and breathless - Blake swallows, wants even more--

Yang makes the move to get off of her, chest heaving, but Blake holds her closer, licks Yang again, hears her choke on her own voice. “Jesus,” she murmurs, thighs clenching. 

“Please,” Blake says from between her legs, breathy and wanton. She doesn’t release her grip. “Please. Keep going.” 

“I,” Yang says, inhale unsteady and foreign, “I don’t know if I can. Cum again.” 

She feels Blake’s wicked smile against her cunt, lips spreading open, tongue darting inside. “Oh,” Blake murmurs, and Yang’s entire body strains under her own weight, muscles flexing hard and definitive. “I’ll make you.” 

“Fuck.” She’s shaking brutally. “Fuck. No. Not like--” she forces a leg out of Blake’s grip, and then she’s turning around, adjusting on all fours. The image of that alone has Blake soaking the sheets beneath her, and Yang lowers her hips again, spreads Blake’s legs apart at the same time. “Like this,” she says, and her tongue slips across Blake’s clit. 

Yang is everywhere, then - inside of her, on top of her, filling up her mouth, her lungs, her heart. She’s never known sex to be something so dirty and safe and fun at the same time, so raw and passionate and vulnerable - she knows her own tongue is growing stiff, haphazardly licking wherever she can taste, but Yang keeps her mouth in an _o,_ sucks exactly right where Blake needs her to until she breaks. 

It’s enough - Blake cumming sends Yang following after, the idea of it hot enough to force her over the edge - and then she’s panting heavily, mouth still hovering over Blake’s cunt and her breath warm, hands spread against Blake’s inner thighs. 

She slides off onto her side, unable to move for a moment - the cool air hits the wetness on Blake’s chin, lips, cheeks - and then Yang drags herself up, adjusting against the curve of her body. 

“Jesus,” she says, chest still heaving. “Jesus, _fuck._ ” 

“That was,” Blake says, finds her voice thick and stringing to her throat, “that was - fuck. Fuck.” 

Yang cups her face, leans in for a sloppy kiss. “I love you,” she says, eyelids fluttering open, and the sweet sincerity of the remark is corrupted by the smirk that captures a corner of her mouth. Her fingers scale low, touching Blake like she’s playing with her without building her back up. “I love you, and since we’ve already taken the next step in our, you know, romantic relationship - I’m thinking it’s about time we take the next step in _this_ part of our relationship, too.” 

Her head’s hazy, full, consumed by static. She’s so exhausted - less drunk, but enough - and Yang’s red, swollen lips aren’t doing her any favors. She fights the closing of her eyelids, the swell of dark waves threatening to consume her into sleep. “I love you,” she says. “What would that be?” 

Shade cast by moonlight, other things dark and fleeting - Yang’s pitched low, if sin were a color and had a tune. “Have you ever been fucked with a strap-on?” 

Her fingers brush Blake’s clit as she speaks, and Blake passes out.

\--

In the morning, nothing changes with the light. 

_I love you,_ is what Blake wakes up to, peppered against her mouth. _I love you, I love you._

“You know what I don’t love?” Blake says, tugging the blankets over both of their heads. “Hangovers.” 

“I’ll fight the sun for you,” Yang says. 

“You’d be fighting yourself,” Blake responds, and Yang’s stunned little blink proves to be too hard for _love_ to resist. 

Oh, from that first minute, she thinks, dragging Yang’s lips to her own. From that first second. From forever.

\--

No pictures from the party itself leak - not in the coming week, anyway - but the paparazzi ones do. There’s the expected swell of delighted confusion from all three sets of their followers - Ruby happily answers tweets the second they roll in, all asking _Blake? Blake Belladonna?_ _Do you like Menagerie? Did you meet on tour?_ with five too many emojis and double the exclamation points.

Yang’s been following her for awhile; Ruby had started to the day she’d first heard Blake’s name, uttered too softly and adoringly to ignore. _Weiss Schnee, childhood star turned manager_ slowly floats up to the surface, though she’s discarded somewhat quickly. Cleary the diversion tactic had worked; nobody knows how to couple the foursome, and the press leaves it without speculation. 

Blake chimes in here and there, well-crafted and subtly redirective - Yang doesn’t say anything at all, though she isn’t notorious for being on Twitter in the first place. Instagram’s where she lives socially (stalking my tag, Blake snarks, and Yang sticks out her tongue), so it isn’t suspicious when she pretends it’s passed her by.

They almost make it. Almost.


	3. Chapter 3

  
**pyrrha is alive denial account __** _@fallmaiden_ · 20m  
ok hear me out. yang wearing that guitar pick necklace? hanging out with blake belladonna? class is in session everybody sit down  
  
**sammy __** _@pyrrrha_nikos_ · 18m  
_Replying to @fallmaiden_  
NO…………..OMG DO U THINK  
  
**pyrrha is alive denial account __** _@fallmaiden_ · 17m  
_Replying to @pyrrrha_nikos_  
I MEAN??? ITS JUST TOO MUCH OF A COINCIDENCE????  
  
**luce** _@yangingaround_ · 15m  
_Replying to @fallmaiden @pyrrrha_nikos_  
WAIT I’M HAVING AN ANEURYSM WE LITERALLY LOOKED UP ALL THESE TOUR PICS OF RUBY’S WHEN YANG WAS FIRST SPOTTED WITH THE NECKLACE AND NONE OF THEM MATCHED BUT LOOK AT THIS FOR BLAKE  
  
[@ _pyrrrha_nikos_ , @ _fallmaiden,_ @ _valkyries,_ and 4 others retweeted your photo]  
  
**sammy __** _@pyrrrha_nikos_ · 12m  
_Replying to @yangingaround @fallmaiden_  
BITCH ITS THE FCUNKJGN SAME  
  
**pyrrha is alive denial account __** _@fallmaiden_ · 12m  
_Replying to @pyrrrha_nikos @yangingaround_  
HOLY SHIT????????????? WAIT I REALLY DONT WANT TO GO FERAL PREMATURELY BUT LIKE????????????  
  
**luce** _@yangingaround_ · 10m  
_Replying to @fallmaiden @pyrrrha_nikos_  
I AM LITERALLY ON HTE FLOOR  
  
**pyrrha is alive denial account __** _@fallmaiden_ · 8m  
_Replying to @yangingaround @pyrrrha_nikos_  
listen. i was half joking when i tweeted this originally but this has absoltuely blown me away. h o w could this have gone so undetected. how  
  
**yang i am free on thurs pls call me when im free** _@valkyries_ · 5m  
_Replying to @fallmaiden @yangingaround and 1 other_  
sorry to jump in but this has Changed my life. that girl is GORGEOUS who is she  
  
**sammy __** _@pyrrrha_nikos_ · 3m  
_Replying to @valkyries @fallmaiden and 1 other_  
omfg thats blake belladonna shes the lead singer of menagerie shes bisexual i think??  
  
**luce** _@yangingaround_ · now  
_Replying to @pyrrrha_nikos @valkyries and 1 other_  
YES SHE’S BI PLEASE GO LISTEN TO BURNING THE CANDLE IT WILL BLOW YOUR FUCKING M I N D  
  
\--  
  
Being Yang’s _girlfriend -_ she can’t stop saying the word, holding it over in her mouth like an expensive wine, discerning the taste of it - isn’t much different than what they were doing before, only now it’s real for other people, instead of just them. Yang’s publicist - a woman named Glynda in her late thirties with an alarming ability to spin a narrative like she’s controlling a tornado - accepts the information with only a dry jab, “I’ll hire some interns to stalk your Twitter fanbase,” and hangs up.  
  
They still keep themselves scarce and secretive, the way magicians protect their tricks; they go out in groups, to high-class bars and private restaurants, their names always under wraps in reservations - that falls to Weiss, whose relationship with Ruby seems to have repaired itself amicably. No awkward silences present themselves during quiet moments, and Weiss’s eyes start to linger less. Still, she sticks around, and Blake’s unable to pinpoint the sense of obligation.  
  
Until she catches Weiss’s mouth tilting at its edges, a laugh slipping out like a mistake she can’t cover fast enough. Until she notices the way Yang throws an arm around her shoulders and she doesn’t shrug it off, adapting to the tactility. Until she notices Weiss starting to plan, inviting themout, inviting herself over.  
  
The confession tumbles out during a dinner at _Toscana,_ an upscale Italian restaurant in Brentwood. It’d been Weiss’s turn to pick the location, and it only makes sense for her guard to drop with the power, glass of red wine in her hand. “I’ve never really had a family,” she says off the tail end of a wildly skewed childhood anecdote of Ruby’s - Yang had chimed in every two minutes with what she claimed was the actual truth. “I think I’m inclined to believe Yang’s version of events, but it sounds lovely, regardless.”  
  
“Sure you have,” Yang says, mild surprise evident; Blake thinks of kicking her underneath the table, thinks of hinting _tact, darling,_ but in the moment following she realizes there’s no need. “You have us, don’t you?”  
  
All the background noise jumps to stereo, surround sound; the clinking of knives, uncorking bottles, laughter and chatter. Weiss doesn’t catch her breath the way most people do when they’re taken aback - her reactions are muted, carefully constructed motions nearly indistinguishable from her regular movement. It isn’t acting, like what Yang does. It’s survival.  
  
“I thought this was just for show,” she says, but she sounds like crumbling stone.  
  
“Weiss,” Yang says, and her ego flares but her sincerity does, too, and Blake’s not sure how that became a winning combination. “I’m, like, extremely important, and I have very little free time. If I didn’t want to spend it with you, I wouldn’t be.”  
  
In a strange, roundabout way, it’s exactly what Weiss needs to hear - people with no obligation to her, choosing her anyway. Blake adds, “I could fire you if I wanted to. I haven’t yet. There’s a reason for that.”  
  
Ruby says, “I just think you’re like, one of the coolest people I’ve ever met.”  
  
When Weiss smiles, it’s so stunningly soft that the world around them pauses for a glance, and Blake can’t help but wonder if she’s what trauma looks like when it finally begins to heal.  
  
\--  
  
Sun’s the one who sends her the text; their studio time is finally booked for the beginning of July, and they’ve got a few kinks to work through in the meantime. They meet up at Neptune’s house in Santa Monica to rehearse, late enough in the morning to bypass rush hour, and spend the day in his converted studio, tearing through pages and pages of notes. They’re still a month out, and Blake’s not worried, though sometimes it feels wrong of her not to be. It’s unnatural, being free.  
  
It’s also an illusion.  
  
Yang’s _spring break_ is coming to an end - she’s slowly picking up promotions; her assistant is over more often than not, but she’s sweet to Blake, tries not to interfere with their time alone; and _Out of Fire_ has been given the green light for further casting. She’s finished the book, but now she’s started it again, littering the pages with tiny sticky notes, her shorthand messy and legible to only her. “That’ll change,” she says cutely, promises she’ll teach Blake to read it.  
  
During an afternoon they’re not together is when the first signs of stress marks reach them, pressure on splintering wood. She’s in her own apartment, fine-tuning a song she’s almost perfected titled _Alone Together,_ when her phone rings.  
  
The ringtone is immediately recognizable, and she swipes up to answer, puts it on speaker. “Hey, babe,” she says, still wrapped up in a chord. “How’d it go?”  
  
“Great,” Yang says, enthusiasm immediately refreshing; she forgets how easy it is to settle into the melancholic quiet when she’s on her own. “A lot of new faces - they’re looking for unknown talent. Plus, the director let slip that I get to wear pants for like, ninety-nine percent of the film.”  
  
“Oh, life-changing.”  
  
“You’re telling me.” But something else gnaws at her tongue. “Actually, so, I kind of need to talk to you about something else.”  
  
It’s a sentence that sends her straight into a bomb shelter, high-siren alerts screeching against her skull and red covering her eyes. She stops strumming. “What?”  
  
“Oh, no, no--” Yang’s apology hits just quick enough to stop a complete spiral. “No, it’s not - I mean, it’s not a _huge_ deal, but just something you should be aware of. Something we both should be.”  
  
The rhythm of her breathing evens out, lulls away from the frantic, staccato pace it’d adapted in those previous seconds. “Okay,” Blake says, shakes her head in a short jerk to clear it.  
  
“So, as it turns out, me encasing your guitar pick in gold and proceeding to wear it like, constantly, _isn’t_ the most inconspicuous thing in the world.” Yang sounds decently ashamed of herself, and Blake’s heart is cliff-diving. “It’s not like the media’s reporting on it or anything, but a group of our fans have definitely figured it out, and now they’re like, obsessed with the theory.” A car door slams, the buckle of a seatbelt. “So I just wanted you to - to be aware. That it’s out there, though it’s not actually _going_ anywhere.”  
  
The nonchalance isn’t faked; Yang genuinely isn’t concerned by it. And why should she be, Blake thinks detachedly, when she’s been dealing with her life and all its intricacies underneath a magnifying glass for years now? Nothing’s touched her. Nothing’s even come close.  
  
But that doesn’t mean it never will.  
  
She doesn’t realize the tilt she’s taken before it’s too late - doesn’t realize she’s hyperventilating, doesn’t realize she’s seeing bruises on her wrists that aren’t there - _you’ll pay for what you’ve done,_ comes death’s own threat, _you and whoever you even think about loving next -_ Yang’s voice calls out again, from confused to anxious to panicked, and then she’s shifting the phone away from her ear and saying something to the driver that Blake vaguely recognizes as her own address.  
  
“Blake,” she’s saying, over and over again. “Blake. Talk to me.”  
  
Blake can’t say a word.  
  
\--  
  
She doesn’t remember the knock at the door, and she doesn’t remember opening it - clarity only starts to come to her when she’s staring down the pathways of Yang’s eyes, when she’s finding gardens and cathedrals, sunsets through rain clouds. Palms cup her cheeks, pressure insistent but gentle.  
  
“Blake,” Yang says, sighing soft and heartbroken.  
  
“Yeah,” Blake responds, the world floating its pieces back together around her. She sounds so far away and empty, and that starts to scare her more than the visions of Adam bulldozing across her brain, tearing down bookshelves and shattering glass. She curls her fingers around Yang’s wrist. “Yeah.”  
  
“Baby.” Yang’s relief is evident; she sweeps Blake up into her arms, one hand cradling the back of her head. “What happened?”  
  
“I don’t know,” Blake says truthfully, shocked to find herself blank and shivering. “I just - I - I knew people would _talk,_ that they’d _know,_ but - the second it became true, all I could think about was _him_ knowing it, too.”  
  
“He can’t touch you anymore, Blake,” Yang murmurs into her ear, and it’s a sentence she’s heard before. Oh, this is all so wrong - this is a burden, this is a drawbridge - this is something she should handle herself, or hand off to a therapist (that’s the obvious answer, that’s the hardest - hearing she isn’t doing as well as she pretends she is. _I’m okay,_ she’d told Yang once, and she won’t be made a liar). “He can’t get through me, okay? Nothing can. _Nothing._ ”  
  
“He’s so _powerful,_ ” is all Blake can say, attempting to express him like the fear of a boogeyman, a demon in desperate search of possession. Yang pulls back, her hands settling on Blake’s shoulders as if a weight to stop her from spiriting herself away. “In the industry - _everyone_ knows him. He took over for Sienna, you know. He’s - he heads _White Fang_ now. The entire label.”  
  
Maybe it’s the unexpectedness of the action that makes it sting like a slap: Yang actually laughs at her, _really_ laughs, and for a moment she’s so stunned at the dismissiveness of it that she only stands there, words scurrying back into the cavern of her throat.  
  
“What part of this is _funny_ to you?” she finally snaps, fingernails digging into her palm, fighting the angry welt of betrayal.  
  
Though the humor doesn’t entirely fade from her voice, Yang senses the shift in tone well enough to distance herself from it, and her laughter stops. She says, “Blake,” and her smirk draws close and dangerous, eyebrows raising arrogantly. “I’m sure Adam’s a powerful guy in your industry”--the contemptuousness inhabits every curve of her expression, gushes from her throat like an outpouring of blood from a wound--“but he’ll _never_ be more powerful than me.”  
  
_Oh._ Blake releases a breath at the explanation, tension shifting from her shoulders to her stomach, discouraging her instinct of flight. Oh. Yang’s not laughing _at_ her, she’s laughing at the idea of it Adam himself - of a top music executive’s clout being at _all_ compared to hers. She’s one of the most famous actresses in the world. Of course there’s no comparison.  
  
“Oh,” Blake says.  
  
Yang reaches up and tucks a strand of hair behind Blake’s ear, mindlessly continues her habits, traces the vein and follows the curve of her cheekbone. “Sometimes it’s cute that you forget I’m like, a big deal,” she says, rolling her eyes harmlessly. “But others, it’d really save us the trouble.”  
  
It’s always about blood - she spends far too much time thinking about where her own pools. Now in her cheeks, in her neck, in her chest. “It’s not _that,_ ” she says, not embarrassed but hot and uncomfortable inside of herself. Sometimes it’s like her skin doesn’t belong to her. “It’s not _just_ that, I guess. It’s - it’s hard to explain.”  
  
Silence stretches onwards for a moment, and then Yang says gently, “I’m sorry.” In her eyes, Blake only gathers up remorse, a river rushing of it. “I’m sorry if you felt like I was - making light of the situation,” she contextualizes, and she slips her hands down, lets them loop loose around Blake’s waist. “I wasn’t...wasn’t thinking about it any other way. It just seems crazy to me, you know? Like, to me, he’s _nothing_. But I get that - that to you, he still has a huge impact on your life, and I shouldn’t have laughed. I should’ve just - I should’ve seen your side of it more clearly. I know better. I’m sorry.”  
  
“It’s okay,” Blake forgives instantly, understanding her perspective and wanting nothing more than to fall into her arms, wanting the chill of her spine to warm, wanting to forget. She does just that, buries her face in the crook of Yang’s neck, her arms winding around her shoulders; Yang responds automatically, rubs Blake’s back in a smooth, comforting motion. “It’s just - he’s still _here,_ to me,” she says. “He’s still out there, and it’s not as if - like, we aren’t hard people to find, and we - we can’t keep this a secret forever.”  
  
“I get that,” Yang murmurs. “I get why you’d still be afraid of him.”  
  
“Yeah.” Blake allows her eyelids to flutter shut, gives herself over to the invulnerability she always feels when Yang is with her. “It’s you, too, you know.”  
  
“Hm?”  
  
“I’m afraid for you, too.”  
  
It isn’t a comment she expects; she blinks, knick appearing between her eyebrows. “Me? Why?”  
  
“Because he’s dangerous,” Blake confesses quietly. She doesn’t know how to translate her fear of broken doors, loud footsteps, the taste of copper. “Because he’d do anything to hurt me. And the easiest way to do that is through you.”  
  
The vivid blue of his eyes surfaces to mind the way glaciers tower, penetrating and foreboding, but she can’t find even a hint of that fear in Yang’s lilac. “I’m the highest paid actress in Hollywood,” she says, so tall she’s never coming down. “Baby, _nothing_ touches me if I don’t want it to. You’re the only one who gets that honor.”  
  
She succeeds with that remark, at the very least; Blake’s lips twitch at corner, and her walls slam their edges back together, her ceiling stitching up its corners. There are no voracious black holes swallowing up the sun; it isn’t his eyes she’s seeing, it’s the color of the sky. Everything is exactly where she’d left it. And he’s still gone.  
  
“Even if people on Twitter know,” Yang murmurs soothingly, “I really don’t think they run in the same circles.”  
  
And, at last, a laugh.  
  
\--  
  
Early June marks Yang’s first talk show promoting her film _If the Sun Ever Sets in Florence_ \- it’d been almost a solo production, the true story of a woman in an abusive relationship who flees from her fiance while on a trip to Italy, proceeds to follow only one set of rules: _stay lost._ She’s reckless in the aftermath - nothing could be worse, Yang’s character says in the trailer, not even death - and so the film itself becomes a cultural, societal unraveling: why are we so _afraid_ for her to travel alone? Walking down streets she doesn’t know, feeling freer than she’s ever felt? Why is that something that we, as an audience, are so terrified of?  
  
“That’s a good question,” the host says, impressed by her articulation. “Because it’s not a thriller, right? It’s not _dark._ ”  
  
“Not in that way,” Yang agrees, her hands neatly folded in her lap. She isn’t wearing her necklace. “She’s not attacked in some lonely alley, not stalked, not raped - the only _enemy,_ per say, is the ghost of the man she’s run from, his influence. It’s a rediscovery of self. But that’s the contradiction: how something so personally beautiful turns into something frightening from the perspective of people who know what the world thinks of a free woman.”  
  
“Wow,” the host says again. Blake finds herself agreeing: _wow._ “And that’s something that takes a lot of care to portray, doesn’t it? How’d you go about preparing for a role like that?”  
  
If Blake were anyone else in the world, she probably wouldn’t have noticed the miniscule twitch of her smile, how her eyes turn suddenly sharp like knives. The host doesn’t, because he isn’t as good an actor, and his expression doesn’t waver. But Blake does. She curls her knees up to her chest, arms wrapping around them as she watches, hooked on every word.  
  
Yang on-screen says, “I take domestic abuse extremely seriously. I read the book, you know, I spoke extensively with the author - but in the end, it’s not...difficult to understand how it must feel to be your own person after years of being treated like an object.” She adjusts her body in her chair, crossing her legs, and it’s enough of a distraction to hide the way her jaw tightens. “All I hope is that I’ve done justice to women who’ve experienced this, who are experiencing it now. It’s an issue that should be talked about more. It’s pervasive in our society, and I - we can’t allow it to continue. We can’t applaud people being brave enough to leave their abusers without dismantling the culture that allows them to flourish in the first place.”  
  
The audience applauds her, empathetic and enamored with the speech; the host nods along, obviously touched. Blake’s own chest is in flux, aching at its previous capacity for pain, the amount of blood that used to pool, broken and out of place. Astounded at her own resiliency, at her bones smooth and unbroken, at the endurance of her voice - at everything he’d tried to take from her and failed.  
  
When she’d left, she’d been so close to nothing she might as well have been shadow. And now she feels herself _present_ in her body, feels her pulse and pronounces herself alive.  
  
_Fuck you,_ she thinks, and she presses _pause_ just as the screen darkens for a commercial.  
  
Yang’s standing behind her in the entryway of the living room, reflected in the glare, watching Blake’s reaction. Waiting for it.  
  
For a moment, neither of them speak; what’s left to say, Blake thinks, looking at her outline in the white-black static frame. There’s the telltale shift of Yang’s shoulders, the dropping of her arms, and then she says, “I’m sorry.”  
  
Blake whips around, elbow against the back of the couch and her knees against the cushions. Shame sits in the corners of Yang’s face, and no, no, that’s the opposite of what should be there. “ _Sorry?_ ” she repeats, bewildered. “What are you - sorry for _what?_ ”  
  
“I was too personal,” she says, and doesn’t make a move to come any closer. “I know you could - I knew you’d be able to tell. Even as I said it. Nobody else will know, but I knew you would, and I just - I owe you more than that.” She inhales a precarious breath, turns into a confession. “I didn’t want you to feel like...like a prop I was using, to validate my own performance.” She sounds positively disgusted with herself at the thought. “I wasn’t...I wasn’t _acting._ It’s about more than that, now. The movie. It means more.”  
  
“Yang.” Blake stops her rambling, her voice raw, a foam-tipped wave on the verge of breaking. God, she loves the woman standing in front of her so much it’s become impossible to contain - floodlands, that’s what she becomes. “Your - what you said was...was fucking _perfect_ , okay? You - you don’t need to apologize.” Yang visibly relaxes, tight lines turning into curves, fingers hanging loose. A breath, and then: “What you _do_ need to do is come over here.”  
  
The wooden floor creaks underneath every footfall - the cushions dip beneath her weight - and then she’s gathering Blake up in her arms, pulling her close to her chest and sighing into her mouth. _You’re not a burden,_ she remembers, and for the first time finds herself believing it.  
  
“You’re more than what happened to you,” Yang murmurs, limbs tangled together and sharing breath. “I want you to know that _I_ know that.”  
  
“I do know that,” Blake says, lets the darkness of the room curl up around them like an animal, shifts the mood from serious to sensual. She’s tired of being haunted by someone who isn’t incorporeal enough to do so, still living and breathing and undeserving of all of it. “I don’t think you’d do half the shit you do to me in bed if you thought I was breakable.”  
  
There’s an abandoned church in the architecture of her smile, in the stained glass of her eyes - Blake can hear the organs, can see the devil behind grandeur. Their noses brush, their lips graze, and Yang says, “Babe, I think you’ve proved you’re anything _but._ ”  
  
\--  
  
That night, Blake opens her notebook to a fresh page. Maybe she’s feeling bold; maybe it’s the first step to moving on. Maybe she’s learning she’s allowed to heal where other people can see her.  
  
_you never wanted me to be on top_  
_she doesn’t, either, but at least she’s good at it_  
  
_\--_  
  
“Damn, Blake,” Ilia mutters under her breath, scouring the lyrics on the following Monday - it’s the first day of Yang’s chemistry readings, and it’s always easiest for Blake to work when Yang’s not around to distract her from it. She’s standing by the keys as the rest of them devour her notes. “This is - _damn._ ”  
  
“You’re blushing,” Blake says, entirely shameless. She’s the one singing about it - all Ilia has to do is drum. It’s really not _that_ bad, in her opinion; they’re just not used to this side of her. She can’t blame them.  
  
“I am _not,_ ” Ilia snaps back, just as Sun jerks the notebook out of her hands. She swipes for it back, half-hearted, freckles disappearing against her darkening cheeks. “It’s just - I mean, it’s--”  
  
“ _Hot,_ ” Sun says, eyes widening over every word like he’s trying to photosynthesize them. “Holy shit. You’re gonna sing this? About Yang?In front of _people?_ ”  
  
“That’s the plan,” she answers cheerfully. “Neptune, check out the bass line.”  
  
“Oh, now _that’s_ hot,” he says, immediately fingering the notes as Sun holds it out for him to read. “Yeah. That’s sexy. Can I fuck with it?”  
  
“Of course. See?” Blake says. “Neptune’s on board.”  
  
“It’s not that I’m not _on board,_ ” Ilia says, finally managing to snatch the notebook back. “It’s just that - I mean, Jesus, this line alone - ‘some people find God on their knees, I find her in between mine’--”  
  
Neptune bumps her shoulder, stretching out a hand to point at a following lyric; his bass headstock smacks Sun in the neck, who yelps and winces. Maybe she should’ve made copies. “Yeah, but look at the rest of it - ‘nothing scares her in the dark, not even me’?” He pauses, tilts his head to the side like he’ll see the truth if he’s viewing it from a slightly different angle, and his expression slowly solidifies into understanding. “Oh.”  
  
“What?” Sun asks.  
  
“It’s not about sex,” he says. “Blake’s in love with her.”  
  
All pairs of eyes shoot over to him. Ilia says, “Uh, what?”  
  
“It’s not sexual, it’s romantic,” he explains patiently, as if she isn’t standing right there with the ability to confirm it. “C’mon. She’s talking about herself metaphorically. Her baggage. She’s saying nothing scares Yang off.”  
  
“I’d be happy to answer any and all of your questions, should you decide to aim them at me,” Blake says, sanguine and sarcastic simultaneously. She’s too strangely at peace to find the situation anything other than amusing. “Yes, I’m in love with her.”  
  
“See? Told you,” Neptune says, and turns into stone upon comprehension, the gaze of Medusa herself striking him still. “Wait.”  
  
Even though they’re in his studio, Santa Monica air always carries that hint of salt, as if the ocean’s politely lingering just outside the front door and waiting to be let in. She tastes it now, the color blue, and she’s changing that connotation to freedom, to beauty. The closer it gets to summer, the more Yang starts talking about the beach; the sun, the sand, the sea - her dad lives in Malibu; they’ve been trying to find a time to meet for weeks now.  
  
They’re still staring, even through her daydream, and then Sun glances between the other two oddly. “What’re you both so freaked out about? _Obviously_ Blake’s in love with her.”  
  
“Well, _yeah,_ ” Ilia says. “But I didn’t expect her to like - give it up so easily.”  
  
“I’m learning,” Blake says. She trails her fingers softly across the keyboard, presses down on a _G._ “To be more honest.”  
  
A hand descends over her head, tousels her hair, musses her bangs over her eyes - she whacks at it blindly, from happiness to harrumph. Sun pulls his arm back and says, “It’s nice.”  
  
“Nice?”  
  
“Knowing how you feel, for once,” he clarifies, but he isn’t an actor; his smile only curls at a single corner, almost unbearably earnest despite the amount of it he’s trying to hide. It’s hard for her to fight old habits, to hold his gaze without looking away, but--  
  
Well, she’s decided she’s done running.  
  
\--  
  
Blake drives straight to Yang and Ruby’s at the end of the day, waits for Yang to come home and collapse unceremoniously into her arms.  
  
“How was it?” Blake asks, laughing into her neck. “Did sparks fly?”  
  
“The casting director thought so, but honestly?” Yang says. “Nobody else is you.”  
  
\--  
  
Emmy nominations drop, which normally aren’t Yang’s category, but she’d guest-starred on a top-rated HBO miniseries back in February to critical acclaim - which is now making itself tangibly present in the form of her own nomination _._ Somehow, she doesn’t see it coming; she stares blankly at her name as if she’s concerned of its presence on a list, before blowing into a smile and laughing into the curve of Blake’s mouth.  
  
“I’m proud of you,” Blake says, kissing across her face. “I watched it when it aired. I never told you that.”  
  
Yang can’t stop giggling. “Did you actually like the show?”  
  
“No,” Blake admits shamelessly. “I hated it. I only watched it for you.”  
  
“Was it worth it?”  
  
“It was worth it.”  
  
\--  
  
The premiere for Yang’s movie arrives faster than Blake’s able to keep track of, and it’s the first she’s actually attending ( _with company_ goes unsaid). Pyrrha’d been invited, and with her normally comes Jaune - Nora and Ren - Ruby, of course, and Weiss - her dad--  
  
“I can’t believe I’m meeting your dad at your movie premiere,” Blake comments, and Coco laughs from where she’s unzipping the garment bag in Yang’s large powder room. “Talk about pressure.”  
  
“Are you kidding?” Yang says, helping style her own hair; she’s not really a fan of other people touching it unless it’s necessary. Velvet’s half an exception - Yang allows it, but still complains. She’s currently working on an elegant braid, which will wrap around the back of her head and weave into some kind of fancy bun. “It’s the perfect time - he’ll be overwhelmed with pride at both my success _and_ the fact that I’ve finally ‘stopped procrastinating a love life’, as he so charmingly puts it.”  
  
Coco snorts, straightens out the dress; it’s a vibrant scarlet, beadwork around the waist with a trilled, flowing skirt, sharp cut between her breasts - it has sleeves that loop and fall around her upper arms, straps separated slightly further up the shoulder to keep it in place. “You’re wearing Rodarte tonight,” she says, down to business. “Your heels are Louis Vuitton.”  
  
“Yeah, yeah.” Yang pins her braid into place, Velvet’s precise fingers securing it with a better angle. “I got it. I love talking fashion with the media.”  
  
“You know what I’m wearing?” Blake says, note too serious to be legitimate. Her brand of dry humor’s apparent from its first syllable to Yang. “Target.”  
  
“You are _not,_ ” Coco says, mortified as she rounds on Blake and nearly drops the dress; it takes her a second to place Yang’s laughter underneath her disgust, and then her expression dives into displeasure. “Oh, so she’s a comedian _and_ a musician.”  
  
“Yang managed the full package, apparently,” Velvet says, half-smiling through her concentration.  
  
“Well, except that she’s like, a blanket hog,” Yang dismisses, allows Velvet to position her head for a better angle. “I’m probably gonna have to dump her.”  
  
“ _You’re_ the one who kicks the blankets off in the first place.”  
  
“It’s hot.”  
  
“No, it isn’t. You just have the internal body temperature of like, a fucking yeti or something--”  
  
Coco sneaks a look into the mirror, catches Velvet’s eye, finds her mouth fighting a smile; they’re harboring the same fear: any sincerity they reveal might be too heavy, might send Yang into composure rather than carelessness.  
  
“Baby, I love it when you call me a cryptid,” Yang says, and that’s a losing battle. Velvet chuckles, shaking her head, still weaving long strands of blonde hair meticulously through her fingers.  
  
Yang pauses, and for a moment Coco’s afraid that’s all they’ll get, the moment closing - but she only smiles brighter, white light reflecting rings around her irises, and oh, of course: acting for a living is one thing, but having to live like you’re acting is another. They’re her friends. She’s probably tired of hiding.  
  
“What are you _really_ wearing?” Coco asks, because soon Scarlet’ll be there to do her make-up and there’s a little too much giggling for a steady hand.  
  
“Armani,” Blake says, and wanders into the closet to find it. Nobody comments on _that_ detail. “I’ve been...I used to get dragged to a lot of high-profile parties. So I’m prepared.”  
  
“Let’s see,” Coco says, hanging Yang’s dress on its rack. She sweeps right past the revelation - she’s read Blake’s Wikipedia, knows the scenes she’d been born into.  
  
It takes her a minute, but it’s not exactly her fault - Yang’s closet is _huge,_ and despite its organization, it’s still overwhelming to sort through, simple to lose an item in. Coco spies her entire section of patterned flannel shirts and scowls.  
  
Until she spots the long, glittering black dress held in Blake’s hands.  
  
Oh, that’s a girl who knows her angles, her curves, all her lines and edges. She nods approvingly, able to envision it on her perfectly. “That’ll do,” she says, and Blake grins like she hears the concealed intensity behind the endorsement.  
  
\--  
  
Most people arrive to red-carpet premieres on foot - that’s a detail Blake never would’ve guessed, but it’s obvious the second it’s pointed out.  
  
They’re the lucky few who get to arrive by car; riding with the star has its perks. Yang’s publicist is already there, and she’s surprisingly nice, though very curt as she gives Yang the rundown of what to expect. Tai’s coming from Malibu, and he’d rather take his own car and park than deal with the circus of the carpet. He’s been down it enough times, Yang says; everyone invited walks the red carpet. But the way I do it is a little different.  
  
And all Blake has to do is wait ten, twenty minutes to realize what she means.  
  
Once they’re past security, Glynda immediately shepherds Yang to the photo pit while they hang back in the crowd, unnoticed amidst the absolute chaos from the photographers - they’re screaming Yang’s name, _over the shoulder, to the left, hand on the hip_ \- but Yang’s got it down to a science, an art; she poses for ten to fifteen seconds, moves down line. She’s stunning in her dress, her elegant bun, her dark eyeliner and smokey eyeshadow, her red lips - Blake’s breathless at the sight of her, at war with too many of her own emotions - pride, hunger, venerance - even Weiss seems impressed with Yang’s poise, her prominence.  
  
After that, she’s lead to the start of the press line where she gives various interviews, pretending to be charmed by the interviewers who comment on her appearance, more forgiving of the ones who ask her more personal questions, and warm to the ones who congratulate her.  
  
And then there are fans. Hundreds of fans.  
  
Blake’s exhausted watching it - all they’ve done is linger in the background, gossiping about some of the people passing by; Ruby seems to have endless anecdotes from various red carpet events - but Yang works it in stride, and then they’re finally, _finally_ inside.  
  
“I think they invented red carpets for you,” Blake murmurs to her the second there’s no microphone to pick it up.  
  
“I need a drink,” she says in response, and Blake takes the risk, brushes her fingers against Yang’s wrist. It seems like enough of a reminder. Yang softens, mollified and real. “You look amazing. They should’ve been taking _your_ picture.”  
  
“You can take my picture later.”  
  
She’s rewarded with a dark, sultry kind of smirk; Blake’s not sure what she’s just agreed to. “Deal,” Yang says, and oh, yes, she’s everything that _red_ represents.  
  
\--  
  
Tai’s already there - he meets them in the lobby, kisses his daughter on the cheek in congratulations, hugs his other one enthusiastically - and then he turns on Blake, blue eyes like skies instead of whirlpools, something that lifts rather than drowns. There was a time she’d see those eyes and collapse under the weight of them. Too many people associate red with anger, with hatred, with violence - it’s wrong, it’s all wrong. Blue, she thinks. The mask of cruelty.  
  
But he’s like his daughter, breathes new life into a world she’s grown numb to; he pulls her into an embrace, repeating her name in a breathless tone of delight. _I’ve heard so much about you_ , he says, bright the way the cloudless universe is supposed to feel. _You’ve gotta make it down to Malibu one of these days - we’ll go for brunch, head to the beach--_  
  
“I love her,” Blake interrupts, because sometimes she’s caught between who she used to be and who she is, and _love_ is the only thing to place herself. “I just - I think it’s important that you know that.”  
  
He’s taken aback by the abrupt confession; the crowd moves steadily around them, the pulsing of blood. Yang’s been wrapped up by the director, but even the back of her head is enough to wow, the smooth skin of her back, muscles beneath.  
  
And he relaxes into a smile. It isn’t as overpowering, closed-lipped and softer; he says, “Yeah,” and pats her on the shoulder. “I can tell. But as long as _she_ knows, that’s enough.”  
  
“She knows.” Blake burns against her bones, simmering inside of herself. “She definitely knows.”  
  
\--  
  
She sits on the opposite side of Ruby, a seat away from Yang, and she’s kind of glad she does.  
  
_Powerful_ isn’t even the right word to describe it - Yang had checked with her multiple times, asking if she thought she’d be able to handle the depiction, letting her know the extent of what was shown on screen - but there are parts she _still_ isn’t prepared for, smaller, quieter moments of peace that remind her too much of the first breath after rain, of looking down at her own skin and finding it unbroken. There’s a scene in which Yang’s character stands on a cliffside overlooking the ocean and _breathes_ \- her eyelashes flutter in the wind; her lips part, pink and chapped; her hair’s stringy and whipping her face in the air - she’s so close to the edge, for a moment there’s a collective inhale from the audience, like they’re afraid she’s going to jump - but that’s the truth of it, that’s what it feels like: suddenly having so much freedom you wonder where it ends. If it ever does.  
  
Ruby is openly crying by the end - so is Tai - and even Weiss is dabbing at her eyes, trying not to ruin her eyeliner. Half the audience is a wreck. It’s unbelievably moving - the cinematography _alone,_ Weiss keeps murmuring, half-choked and pretending to rise above it - and Blake - Blake--  
  
She isn’t crying, but she finds Yang’s eyes when the lights raise and there aren’t any words to do it justice, only concepts: tree roots upending pavement, daring to be contained; the sound of seagulls, miles away from water; makeshift memorials, crosses stuck into dirt beside highways. Something of a death, she thinks. Something of a beginning.  
  
Half of Yang’s mouth twists up, unbearably and openly tender. She understands. She must.  
  
\--  
  
_Fame_ , Blake starts to realize, becomes addicting. The power of it. The significance.  
  
They attend the after-party at the director’s house in Beverly Hills, and _everyone_ wants whatever part of Yang they’re able to latch onto - her ear, her arm, her smile - but the only person Yang has eyes for is _her._ _That’s_ the addicting part.  
  
Maybe it’s because it’s a smaller space and the crowd’s looser, more casual. Maybe it’s because she’s had five cocktails and hardly anything to eat to soak up the alcohol. Maybe it’s because Yang is _unbelievably_ talented and an otherworldly kind of gorgeous, the kind that other people beg at temples to worship. Maybe it’s because Blake’s the only one who actually gets to beg her for it and be rewarded.  
  
They’re in the middle of the garden, too close together under the excuse of space. Blake’s dress is glittering underneath the fairy lights, strung around the perimeter and beautifully illuminating the dark cherry wood of the fence; the stone fountain bubbles to their left, surrounded by hydrangeas. Yang’s drunk, too, and it’s _dangerous_ again, like Nora’s birthday, like every time they’re out of control and their eyes lock, lips curving around their glasses.  
  
Yang begins to _slip._  
  
Why wouldn’t she - she’s coming off the high of a seemingly successful premiere, being showered with compliments by every guest she brushes shoulders with. She’s the center of attention, and her ego loves it, though not as much as she loves being the center of _Blake’s_ attention.  
  
She wraps her fingers around Blake’s wrist, starts to cup her cheek as she bends to whisper into her ear, starts to let her lips linger a little too precariously. Her eyes are long gone - she’s staring at Blake’s mouth and smiling, darting occasionally back to her pupils. She’s overflowing, harboring too much to internalize; Blake can _see_ the debate falling short, can see the influence taking over. And she doesn’t stop it at all.  
  
The music’s loud, covers them like a roof, like a suggestion - it’s all about sex and putting your mouth places you only dream about - and Yang caves in, lips winding themselves wicked, stare letting itself become smoke. She drops Blake’s name as if by divine intervention - she can’t help herself, she’s the most important person in the city and she always wants what she already has - darkly arrogant, saccharine.  
  
“What?” Blake says, struck into her.  
  
“I think,” Yang murmurs, leaning closer with a hand on her arm, “I’m going to kiss you.”  
  
There are about a thousand reasons she shouldn’t - Blake should say _no,_ _not here,_ should take her hand and drag her into corners, should lead her on with a sly shake of her head and a promise of later - but she can’t do any of it. She’s drunk and Yang’s - Yang’s--  
  
She’s heard, you know, that astronauts who return to Earth have such altered perspectives on the universe that they can scarcely think of anything but going back. The curve of the world, the shimmering ethereality of the horizon, the infinite blackness stretching out around them in every direction - it changes you. Consumes you. And suddenly it’s the only thing that matters.  
  
That’s Yang. Everything.  
  
And so she whispers, “God, please.”  
  
Yang tucks her hand against Blake’s jaw, fingers spreading through her hair, and all Blake can think before Yang’s lips are on hers is that space - in all its boundlessness, its grandeur - has _nothing_ on the way Yang works her tongue.  
  
\--  
  
“Oh, Jesus Christ,” Weiss says. “They’re so fucking _stupid._ Yang makes one fucking movie and thinks she’s invincible--”  
  
Ruby snorts, laugh breaking over it; she can’t take Weiss’s side when it’s wrong. People are looking, but they’re looking away; they know she isn’t something of theirs to consume.  
  
“Try fifty movies,” Ruby points out. “If anyone’s invincible, it’s her.”  
  
Glynda steps up beside them, stone-faced and stoic. “Vodka tonic,” she tells the bartender shortly, and drains it in what Weiss swears is a single minute.  
  
\--  
  
Once they’re home, locked away in Yang’s bedroom with Ruby on the other side of the house, Yang follows through with her promise - she trains her phone on the arch of Blake’s spine, her black dress glittering in the light. The fabric pooling around her hips, her arms free. Slithering to the floor. Skin, and skin, and skin, sand dunes under moonlight.  
  
These are pictures Yang doesn’t delete.  
  
\--  
  
They’re incredibly lucky photographic evidence doesn’t leak, though the story itself does.  
  
Fortunately it’s through Twitter sources, and mostly uncredible for actual journalists - ‘friend of a friend’-type nonsense that only tabloids have the lack of respect to publish for views - but it’s definitely _out there,_ misplaced puzzle pieces that their fans have no problems stringing together like some collaborative work of modern art.  
  
**Hannah __** _@ciaolong_ · 1h  
YALL my friend’s brother worked on Yang Xiao Long’s new movie and said he saw her making out with a girl at the afterparty...my friend showed him a pic of Blake and he said it was her….I’m fuckign  
  
**ma’am this is a mcdonalds** _@redlikeroses_ · 1h  
_Replying to @ciaolong_  
no way omfg are u fucking with us  
  
**Hannah __** _@ciaolong_ · 1h  
_Replying to @redlikeroses_  
NO dude I’m serious! I mean nobody took pictures or anything because it was like a closed event but it sounded legit to me, my friend was like yeah he mentioned it casually, like he said he was gonna say hello to her but she was busy with her girlfriend  
  
**ma’am this is a mcdonalds** _@redlikeroses_ · 1h  
_Replying to @ciaolong_  
SHUT UP OMFG HER GIRLFRINED  
  
**kylee** _@belladonna_blake_ · 1h  
_Replying to @redlikeroses @ciaolong_  
NO….I WANT TO BELIEVE  
  
“Apparently Ruby’s fans have a name for us,” Yang says, reading the tweets over Blake’s shoulder, still wrapped around her in bed. It’s a distraction, purposefully constructed. “Not just you and me, but like, the four of us.”  
  
“Which is?” Blake asks, trying to quell a fear she isn’t sure is even there. She’s fighting habits - so, people _know,_ but they’re still in control. It isn’t appearing in _People;_ TMZ don’t have the proof they need. Yang’s right: if anything, _Page Six_ is going to run some bullshit clickbait calling them ‘gal pals’ and leave it there. Total lack of imagination.  
  
“Team R.W.B.Y.,” Yang says, rolling her eyes; her cheek presses against Blake’s bare shoulder. “They think it’s funny that our initials together sound like her name.”  
  
“Of course they do.”  
  
“People are gonna combine _our_ names, you know,” she continues, arm curling around Blake’s ribcage, mouth dropping to her ear. She’s still laying on her side, but her smile threatens the rest of her face. “We’re gonna have something horrible like _Yake_ \--”  
  
She rolls into the sheets as she turns over, burying her snicker into the skin of Yang’s collarbone. “Bang,” she says, and she’s met with a beating heart and a laugh.  
  
“At least that’s accurate.” Lips press against the curve of her skull. “Are you okay?”  
  
Blake blinks her eyes open to gold; sun winds its way through Yang’s hair the way children braid around dandelion stems, delicate but binding. It’s hard to be afraid when there’s so much light in the room. “Yeah,” she says, amazed to find it true. There’s no storming conflict; no discomfort. She isn’t a _thing,_ and she won’t hide herself away like one. “It’s - I don’t know. It’s inevitable, I guess, isn’t it?”  
  
“Yeah.” Yang’s never been one to pull a punch, sugarcoat the truth until it’s rotting. She’s still gentle in spite of it. “It’s inevitable, but it’s still ours.”  
  
_Ours -_ that’s a word with a spark, a word shaped like a house with an open door - Blake’s used to _mine,_ hands that grip so tightly they leave marks, crime scenes. _Ours_ is a promise, a proposal, a forever. She’s learning how to live with that.  
  
“Then that’s what matters,” Blake says, thinks of hollowing out her chest and putting her heart somewhere it can live forever. Thinks of tying it to Yang’s, thinks of rebuilding its chambers into rooms, habitable and welcoming. Thinks of immortality.  
  
It’s hard, she’s realizing, to be so grounded when her own past is further and further away by the day, by the minute, by the second. It’s hard to feel vulnerable when she’s allowed to say no. It’s hard for her to remember.  
  
A smile - Yang traces the blue veins in the crook of her arm with her fingers, like they’re the fine bristles of a paintbrush and she’s creating. It doesn’t matter what. Something with a life of its own.  
  
Maybe that isn’t such a bad thing.  
  
\--  
  
Nebula is the name of the woman they end up casting as Yang’s love interest and counterpart. She’s a little bit of a fresher face - with Yang attached, they’re allowed to take the risk - but she’s a lesbian like Yang, passionate about the project, headstrong and stubborn. Physically, Yang gets it - they look _good_ together, and she’d played off of Yang well in the audition, delivered her lines in a way that challenged Yang’s character, rather than acquiesced to her as a lot of the others had done.  
  
But she’s also extroverted, and purposefully unsubtle.  
  
She allows her gaze to slip, lets her mouth curl crooked. Yang recognizes the signs early, when she rests a hand on Yang’s shoulder as if it were a natural habit, _to touch._ So Yang’ll build the borders - if the film’s successful, they’ll be seeing each other for another few years, and Yang isn’t one to let her life imitate her art.  
  
“I like you,” Yang says abruptly during a break in the table read. “I think you have good instincts. So I’m going to be honest with you.”  
  
“Okay,” Nebula says cautiously, capping her water bottle.  
  
“I have a girlfriend.” Yang smiles over the word, can’t even be bothered to curse herself for its glaring authenticity. “And I’m like, obsessed with her. I’d hate for there to be any miscommunication between us.”  
  
The information’s not as surprising to her as it is to everyone else: Yang’s notoriously alone to the public, even if she hasn’t actually been in private. Nebula cocks her head, examines her top to bottom, lingers on the necklace.  
  
And then she grins. “Musician, huh?” she pegs, eyes twinkling. “So the rumors are true?”  
  
“Yeah,” Yang says, mirroring her mouth, more lighthearted now that they’ve crossed that hurdle. “As they usually are in Hollywood.”  
  
\--  
  
She finds Blake where she always is these days - out in the garden, drinking in the sky and the sun with her guitar resting in her lap, notebook open at her side. Her hair’s up in a ponytail, skin warm from the heat; her tank top hangs loose around her body, black lace of her bra visible against her ribs.  
  
“Hey.” Yang drops to the grass beside her, doesn’t stop, lies back and exhales heavily. Somehow, the cloudless blue sky never gets boring, and its boundlessness doesn’t overwhelm. It’s hard to find discontent in a perfect day - and that’s every day.  
  
Blake smiles, stops mid-strum. “Hey. How was the read?”  
  
“Good,” Yang says, licks her lips; they’re a little chapped. She spends a lot of time kissing Blake without enough lip balm. “I told Nebula you were my girlfriend. She was kind of - testing the waters, I think. Like you know how girls do that _thing_ where they pretend they’re touchy when they’re interested in you, so it’s like, easy to play off--”  
  
“Yeah.” Blake’s already laughing. “I’m familiar with the move.”  
  
“--Right, yeah. So I figured it was better to shut that down early.” Yang hears the breeze before it hits her, high in the trees before sinking down, rustles the bushes, the flowers, the grass; it ghosts the smile unfolding across her face. “She was cool about it, though. She wasn’t actually into me.”  
  
“Well, it’s not like I could blame her if she was.”  
  
“D’you think it’s gonna be weird for you?” Yang asks, tucking her hands behind her head. She’s oddly comfortable outside in the sun, laying on the ground; there’s a girl with her music and the weather’s nice. Maybe that isn’t so hard to understand. “Like, when you have to see me kissing another girl.”  
  
Blake cocks her head, both arms resting across her guitar. Her ponytail swings behind her, following the curve of her neck. “Probably not,” she says, sounding mildly amused at the prospect. “You’ve kissed people in movies before _._ Besides, I know you don’t _want_ to be kissing her.”  
  
Well, yes - it’s part of the job, but kissing anyone who isn’t Blake certainly lacks any kind of appeal. Yang’s previous smile quickly tugs itself into a grimace, and Blake laughs again at her expression. “I don’t,” she says, lets her sigh out. “I mean, it’s not like I was a fan of it before - it’s weird, you know? It’s so technical. There’s nothing sexy about it. Sometimes you get notes about _tongue usage_.”  
  
“Yeah, I get that,” Blake says, even though she definitely doesn’t. She’s trying desperately to keep a straight face, sympathize - she’s cracking at the corners, laughter still sitting in the lines of her mouth - and she gives it up the minute she knows she’s caught, Yang’s lips curling at an edge and her eyes slanting accusatorily. “You’re such an incredible actress,” she says instead, and oh, flattery will get her far. “I’m probably going to forget it’s _you._ ”  
  
“That’s the goal,” Yang says with a cheeky grin, letting it slide. “I want you to be proud of me.”  
  
“I’m always proud of you.” She utters it softly, matter-of-fact, setting her guitar to the side. Sometimes that’s the familiar mood - not one, but two - love is always waiting around corners.  
  
It’s a crime that Yang isn’t kissing her. She sits up, supports herself on a hand, and leans in, catches Blake’s tiny gasp with her mouth - her necklace dangles between them, resting above Blake’s heart. She forgets about the grass, about the sun; it all becomes an embrace, the world wrapping its arms around them.  
  
She pulls away, brushes Blake’s bangs away from her forehead; she can’t contain the pressure of her own adoration - it’s a hose, it’s a wrecking ball; it spills, it crumbles - but Blake catches it in her cupped hands, in the golden pools of her irises; Blake catches it, just as she always has, and Yang finally understands how something can be both immense and weightless at the same time.  
  
She shifts onto her back again, limbs strewn across the grass; this is one of those moments where she’s positive she’s lived her life right - every mistake, every stumble, every fall - she’s here. Her smile peaks at a corner. “Play me a song,” she says.  
  
Blake reaches for her guitar. “Okay.”  
  
\--  
  
Their first week in the studio goes more smoothly than anyone expects - especially Fox and Sage, their producer and engineer respectively; they’d been the driving force behind the critical acclaim of their first album, and knew how to give critiques productively and collaboratively - Fox, blind, liked to say he had more qualifications than anybody with his heightened hearing. The label had taken a big risk with their band after _White Fang,_ but the two men had never been anything less than optimistic and excited to work. To Blake, it’d looked a lot like the first glimpse of hope in a long, long time.  
  
“You’re more prepared than the first time, that’s for sure,” Sage says during one of their tracking sessions. “Fox doesn’t have nearly as many notes.”  
  
“I was inspired,” Blake says.  
  
“You weren’t inspired the first time?”  
  
“It’s different,” she says. “I was barely me the first time.”  
  
He doesn’t respond to that, but after she lays down the vocals for _Alone Together,_ she catches his eye and knows he understands.  
  
\--  
  
The closer Blake gets to finishing her own songs, the more music she puts on around the house. The more time she spends in the studio, the closer her veins rise to the surface underneath her skin, the faster her heart finds its rhythm. She spends a lot of time on her feet, often swaying absent-mindedly, tapping her fingers against whatever surface is in front of her, mouthing lyrics whose melodies only she can hear.  
  
“I’m thinking of leaning into it,” she says one Saturday afternoon with her head in Yang’s lap, fingers using the veins of Yang’s wrist like chords, keys, gently darting back and forth. “You. Acknowledging it.”  
  
The hum Yang settles into is both one of curiosity and confirmation, subtle enough not to startle. “How so?”  
  
“You love Instagram,” Blake says. “You can post pictures of us, if you want to.”  
  
“Yeah?”  
  
“Yeah,” she affirms. Los Angeles, these days, appears larger than it ever has, all its nooks and alleyways and boulevards stretching into mountains, its sky and stars no longer a dome but a highway. She’s farther from her past than she’s ever been, and more herself than she’s ever felt. “We’re part of your life.”  
  
“You are,” Yang agrees, too softly to encompass _we_ and altered to fit Blake alone. “I’ll start slow.”  
  
That’s a comment that brings an unexpected smile pulling at the corner of Blake’s mouth - “Slow?”  
  
“Yeah.” Yang taps at her screen, and a second later Blake’s own phone lights up with a notification.  
  
_yangxiaolong liked your photo._  
  
She gives away her laughter; Yang’s earned it. “Starting slow, huh?” Blake says. “We’ve never been very good at that.”  
  
“I’m giving myself five minutes before I give in to the impulse.”  
  
The pool water laps at its edges; Yang’s fountain bubbles. There are birds chirping with them like they’re giggling along. She’s a musician, but she’s never heard so many pleasant noises, so much natural lightness to the earth around her.  
  
That’s what happens when glass stops shattering, when wood stops splintering. It leaves room for everything else.  
  
\--  
  
Five minutes turns out to be an overstatement - she makes it three before Blake gets tagged in a photo along with Weiss and Ruby, from a night out at the Chateau Marmont’s cocktail bar. Conversation clearly has their attention; Blake’s got an eyebrow like an archway, and Ruby’s hooked on whatever dramatic hand gesture Weiss is using for emphasis.  
  
_**yangxiaolong** go out & paint the town red_  
| **blakebelladonna** not the color I’d choose  
  
Another laugh. “And what color _would_ you choose? Purple?”  
  
Blake lifts a hand, catches a curl of hair Yang’s waving in the breeze.  
  
“Gold,” she says. “I’d paint it all gold.”  
  
She thinks it’s funny that the sun still tries to be a big deal.  
  
\--  
  
**sierra __** _@gayyang_ · 15m  
YANGS INSTAGRAM  
  
**gemma** _@gambol_shroud_ · 14m  
_Replying to @gayyang_  
FIRST OFFICIAL SIGHTING  
  
**sierra __** _@gayyang_ · 13m  
_Replying to @gambol_shroud_  
im crying its like weve spotted an alien  
  
**gemma** _@gambol_shroud_ · 11m  
_Replying to @gayyang_  
*x-files theme plays*  
  
**Jax @ SDCC __** _@iliaaamitola_ · 10m  
_Replying to @gambol_shroud @gayyang_  
YOU’RE BOTH SO STUPID DID YOU SEE BLAKE’S COMMENT  
  
**sierra __** _@gayyang_ · 8m  
_Replying to @iliaaamitola @gambol_shroud_  
NO SHE COMMENTED…………………...  
  
**gemma** _@gambol_shroud_ · 7m  
_Replying to @gayyang @iliaaamitola_  
yo its possible that im experiencing a serious medical issue. i think its called death. NOT THE COLOR? ID CHOOSE? HELLO? HELLO? ??????FLIRTING??? HELLO  
  
**Jax @ SDCC __** _@iliaaamitola_ · 5m  
_Replying to @gambol_shroud @gayyang_  
I KNOW DUMBASSES  
  
**sierra __** _@gayyang_ · 3m  
_Replying to @iliaaamitola @gambol_shroud_  
blake. baby. honey. tahts gay. youre gay  
  
**gemma** _@gambol_shroud_ · 2m  
_Replying to @gayyang @iliaaamitola_  
its gay bro  
  
**sierra __** _@gayyang_ · 1m  
_Replying to @gambol_shroud @iliaaamitola_  
bout to be real gay hours up in here. real yang and blake are gay hours  
  
**gemma** _@gambol_shroud_ · now  
_Replying to @gayyng @iliaaamitola_  
please dont insult us like this its literally always yang and blake are gay hours  
  
\--  
  
“Wait ‘till you see the blogs,” Yang says after.  
  
“The blogs,” Blake repeats vaguely, a distant monster at a faraway castle she’ll save for later to reckon with.  
  
\--  
  
They don’t really _have_ free time anymore, but incredibly, it’s less of a problem and more of an annoyance.  
  
It doesn’t _complicate_ their relationship, doesn’t leave them bitter and wanting and empty; it’s all temporary, all leading to bigger and brighter things. When Yang’s home, she’s got her script out and her highlighters messily strewn across the table; green goes to words she remembers from the book, pink to a dynamic she needs a tone for, blue smothering lines she can’t quite get right. Her nights on set can run late - background, she keeps joking, is getting paid some _wild_ overtime.  
  
Blake remembers the apologies like liquid encasing her brain the first time her own studio session runs over - remembers her dread, the dawning anxiety nipping at her heels and latching, teeth gnawing their way up her calves, her thighs, her spine - remembers how it all vanished at the sound of Yang’s voice telling her to take her time, a sponge soaking blood. Not leaving her spotless. But clean.  
  
They forget the cage they’re in, start seeing it as a freedom. Yang’s Instagram fills up. Blake taps the heart and comments - not always, but enough. They don’t interact anywhere else, but sometimes they’ll like each other’s tweets. She starts seeing the infiltration of her notifications page; icons of their candids, handles of their names combined.  
  
They get careless, that’s the problem. They get reckless and wild and bold. It’s coming up on six months. With _Out of Fire_ in production, Yang’s days are often long and grueling and exhilarating; _Menagerie_ ’s album is almost complete, aside from a few tweaks Fox wants to make to a couple tracks, working with the mixer and masterer. She spends a lot of time with Sun and Neptune and Ilia, eating In-N-Out double-doubles and listening to their own songs.  
  
“It sounds like you,” Sun says after a full album play-through, toothy grin uncontainable, and Blake turns her face to hide tears that never fall.  
  
\--  
  
“Reset!” the A.D. calls for the eighth time that scene. Neither of them complain, stepping back to their markers; extras shift all around them, a human wave. Their director’s notoriously perfectionist, but fortunately not the thirty-takes-and-up sort; she tends to nail her vision in much less.  
  
“Is there a note?” Nebula calls, adjusting her sleeve, shifting her weight between feet after. She’s hardly so impatient; Yang gives her an odd look, a slanting brow.  
  
“No,” the A.D. replies from the tent. “It’s excellent. Great work so far, ladies.”  
  
“Great.”  
  
“Hot date?” Yang asks, and gets slapped with an eye-roll.  
  
“Please,” she scoffs. Her makeup artist comes over, brush in hand, fixing a sheen on her cheek. It’s not a deterrent. “I’m not stupid enough to try and schedule something on a weeknight.”  
  
“Fair.”  
  
“What about you?” Nebula returns the question, doesn’t bother hiding her teasing grin. “Missing _your_ girl?”  
  
“Absolutely,” Yang says, smiling over the admission without embarrassment. She knows how to exist without Blake next to her, but it’s nothing compared to when she is. “She’s in the studio, though. Her album’s almost done.”  
  
“ _Damn_.” The reluctant admiration blows Nebula’s air of casualty, and she embraces it as such. “I know people probably tell _her_ she hit it big, but damn, Yang - I hope you know _you’re_ the lucky one.”  
  
Yang smirks; she likes Nebula more and more by the day despite their somewhat rocky start. It all goes with the territory. Friendship, though, is quickly looking to be easily attainable. “Oh, I’m definitely aware.”  
  
“She’s _way_ cooler than you.”  
  
“She can play like six instruments,” Yang points out. She watches the A.D. gesture to the screen, mime something to the director, who has her hand tucked against her chin. “She writes the music _and_ the lyrics for all her songs. Of course she’s cooler than me.”  
  
Someone’s adjusting lights; for a moment Yang’s illuminated by them, unnatural and sharp, but the kindness of her is there, too - she can’t act all the time. Sometimes _love_ breaks away from her, becomes visible. Nebula won’t draw more attention to it than necessary. “ _And_ she’s hot,” she says instead, pretending like she can’t see what’s there.  
  
An appreciative smile, a glinting hint of teeth. “And she’s hot,” Yang agrees, and they’re struck by a laughing fit so hard that _action_ has to be delayed for several minutes.  
  
\--  
  
“I hope you’re happy with yourselves,” is what Weiss offers up in lieu of a greeting as they sit down for brunch on a Saturday morning; they’d been papped mercilessly walking in, but it’s a famous spot and wasn’t entirely unexpected. Somewhat unfortunate, though, that they’d arrived together - they’re blowing cover fast. “Everyone’s talking about you.”  
  
“They usually are,” Yang replies, nonchalantly flipping over her menu as she scans for cocktails; Blake settles next to her, rests her purse in the nook of the booth. “We’re doing boozy brunch, right?”  
  
“I wouldn’t be here if we weren’t,” Weiss says. It’s somehow not as snobbish as it should be, or maybe they’re just too familiar with her façades. “I’m thinking mimosas.”  
  
“Sounds good.” She shifts back to food, lingering on omelettes; Blake’s pressing her lips together as she contemplates waffle toppings. “Were they tipped off, or something?”  
  
“No,” Weiss says, and doesn’t get the chance to explain further; their waiter approaches, sensing a lull. He’s perfectly composed and polite, used to the sightings, and keeps any flicker of recognition hidden - he’s probably an aspiring actor, Yang thinks. They always are.  
  
They pause on food - “We’re waiting for one more,” Weiss says - but their drinks are out in record time, as though the staff had been eavesdropping prior and already had their glasses ready.  
  
Blake runs her hands through her hair; sunlight drifts across the table as it streams through the windows, catches in the black and reflects. It’s almost mesmerizing, how it glides thickly through her fingers and falls in casual waves - but then, to Yang, everything about her is a beacon, a lighthouse. Blake smiles and it calls Yang’s name.  
  
“I’m sitting right here,” Weiss says, jerks Yang out of her trance. Her glass is tucked in hand, already half-empty. “Jesus Christ.”  
  
Bemusement is what she reads in Blake’s eyes - she shrugs her shoulders in response, offers a smile lopsidedly. “You’re pretty,” she says. “It’s distracting.”  
  
“Oh, I see,” Blake says, and turns back to Weiss with an apology so fake it should be made of silicone and have a serial number. “I’m sorry for my overwhelming beauty. I hadn’t realized the diversion I was causing by existing.”  
  
The corner of Weiss’s mouth quirks - she isn’t immune to humor, and she’s more inclined to give into it when it’s coming from Blake, anyway; she was there for a time when Blake barely spoke, let alone laughed. Hearing her make a joke with such ease - it’s simple, but it’s a sign of progress that once seemed unobtainable. “I suppose I can forgive you.”  
  
“Your benevolence honors us,” Blake says, and it’s one of those moments Yang remembers how long the two of them have been friends, how it technically predates their relationship because Weiss was the introduction of it - she says _technically_ because they’ve come to terms with their history, how the root of it lies somewhere in another world, another time - and it’s a window there, a glimpse into the _before._ Weiss smiles a certain way when she’s around Blake, when Blake’s happy. That’s a story in itself.  
  
“How’s the album coming?” Weiss changes the subject. “Sun’s been giving me daily reports, despite the fact that I haven’t asked for them.”  
  
“Almost done,” Blake says, lifting her glass to her lips. “And then there’s the title.”  
  
“Still having trouble?” Yang asks, and rubs a hand between her shoulder blades without thinking twice. Blake, to her credit, doesn’t seem to notice, either. Weiss’s eyes follow the movement like a finger lining a trail on a map.  
  
“Nothing’s felt right,” Blake says, parts her lips as if to continue the statement before falling short; it’s a strange pause, an awkward lull. The point of Weiss’s eyebrow could slice skin with its expectation, but Blake doesn’t offer it up, only smiles serenely like there’s a secret she’s come into sudden possession of. Yang recognizes it; she’s willing to bet Weiss does, too.  
  
Neither of them say a word. Ruby picks exactly that time to rush in, hair mussed and cheeks flushed, excuses slipping from her lips and the answers hiding in Blake’s.  
  
\--  
  
The pictures come out - strolling into the restaurant together, matching sunglasses, Yang’s necklace and Blake’s calloused fingers - they aren’t touching in any of them, but it’s still _there,_ glaring in its near-vulgarity, the space between them more conspicuous than if they’d left none at all.  
  
“Yang,” Glynda says in her ear, days before her twenty-fifth birthday. “You can’t hide this much longer.”  
  
“I know.”  
  
“You’re barely hiding it now.”  
  
“I know,” she says, staring at a photo of their retreating backs, heads tilted towards each other and spines curving as if in reflection.  
  
It’s theirs, she keeps telling herself. It still belongs to them.  
  
It’s not a lie, but it’s not exactly the truth, either.  
  
\--  
  
Her birthday, miraculously, lands on a Saturday.  
  
Her plans involve sleeping until ten, soaking in morning sunlight with Blake pressed against her side and the relief of finding no other obligation; she imagines skin and skin and skin, a patient heat rolling slowly across their bodies like waves reflecting over asphalt. She imagines teasing, imagines dusting her hand low between Blake’s legs and building a river into a flood.  
  
She doesn’t get that. It’s her birthday. What she gets is much, much better:  
  
Blake’s fingers sinking into her cunt, abruptly tearing her from a dream that she’d found nice at the time, though not in comparison to this: her eyelids flutter open, lips pulling apart a gasp, knee crooking automatically as if trying to take more of Blake in, give her room to expand. She’s not surprised at how wet she is, at how easily she stretches around Blake’s fingers; the unexpectedness of the action alone is enough to cut those corners. No need for foreplay when she wakes up to an almost sinfully beautiful woman wearing the devil on her mouth, hands with a motive.  
  
“Jesus, _fuck,_ ” Yang breathes out as Blake works another finger into her, has her clenching around three. The fabric of her pillowcase is soft in her tight grip, pulling taut at its corners as she writhes against her sheets.  
  
“Happy birthday,” Blake says, her smile feral. “Ruby went out this morning, so...”  
  
She’s got one leg hooked over Yang’s thigh, wetness evident - she’s grinding her hips slightly, and she’s clearly been turned on since before she’d woken Yang up, waiting. There’s sunlight, there’s heat - everything she’d wanted without the patience as a hindrance - sometimes she just wants to fucking _cum_ \--  
  
But then she dips a hand between Blake’s legs, finds her clit, soaked and messy; Blake hums in her throat, caught in the middle of a moan and an indignancy. Yang opens her mouth against Blake’s neck, searches for her pulse and sucks her heart straight from her veins - teeth scraping, purpling skin - feeling Blake growing wetter against her fingers is more of a turn-on than anything else, how she dissolves into a breathy, needy thing, her hips desperate and her clit throbbing; Blake gets to a point where it’s all she can think about, won’t stop until she gets what she wants, something Yang has no problem extending to the point of incoherent pleading.  
  
Her touch is too light, and Blake’s own fingers are losing focus. She knows what Yang’s after, and she’s in one of her _moods,_ feisty with a desire to fight back. “Stop it,” she snarls, short nails digging into Yang’s shoulder. “Fuck me or don’t touch me at all.”  
  
Yang’s half-smirk is alight in an instant, arch of her eyebrow in opposition, becoming cool. “Excuse me?” she murmurs, a dark tone that has Blake trembling against her.  
  
They’re so far from where they started - now she rolls over, curls her fingers around Blake’s knee, parts her thighs, pins her wrists to the mattress with her free hand - now she does what Blake asks without giving her the results - now she rubs her hand the length of Blake’s cunt, cum spreading along her palm while Blake squirms viciously, and slowly slides two fingers into her.  
  
She presses the heel of her palm against Blake’s clit and whispers dangerously, “Don’t tell me what to do.” Blake swallows against a cry, high-strung and out of control. “Fuck yourself.”  
  
“ _Yang_ ,” she whines, cants her hips despite her restricted movement; she’s desperate on an edge, tight around Yang’s hand and begging her deeper, faster, harder. “ _Fuck_ you--”  
  
“It’s _my_ birthday,” Yang interrupts, and curls her fingers sharply, forces Blake’s spine into a curve and her voice breaking soundlessness. “So I suggest you think about being nicer to me if you want to cum at all _._ ”  
  
It’s something Blake admits occasionally - once in awhile - no, there’s time for honesty, and she admits it often: nothing riles her up quite as fast as Yang on top of her, telling her what do and holding it back until she snaps, cums once, cums again, cums over and over with Yang’s tongue lapping at her cunt, swallowing every drop. She loves knowing she’ll only get what she wants when Yang decides to give it to her, loves the precariousness of that cliff, of not knowing when she’ll fall.  
  
_Not knowing._ It used to be terrifying. Yang’s flipped that on its head, made it into a pleasure so powerful it’s worth giving up her own for - maybe it’s the safety, the freedom of it. She doesn’t _have_ to be in control anymore - doesn’t have to cling to it like the reigns of a monster with teeth sharp enough to cut itself loose, doesn’t have to press it to her chest like the red metal of a hot iron brand - and maybe _that’s_ it, maybe it’s _trust_ : Yang would never do anything Blake didn’t want her to do. She’s aware of all Blake’s lines, her stop signs and red lights.  
  
That’s sexier to her than giving orders, being obeyed. She doesn’t _want_ to be obeyed. She wants to be fucked so well she forgets she’s ever felt anything else.  
  
And then Yang withdraws her hand completely, and Blake _almost_ takes it all back.  
  
It’s the unnatural gleam to Yang’s eye that stops her from complaining, stops her from taking Yang’s wrist and sliding down onto her fingers - there’s a _plan,_ a proposition, and Blake kind of wants to find out what it is before disregarding it in favor of satisfaction.  
  
Yang digs her nails into Blake’s thighs as she backs away, leaves one side sticky and damp, and slips off the bed, reaching for the bottom drawer of her nightstand. Blake watches bemusedly and asks, “What are you doing?”  
  
“I made a purchase,” Yang says, pulling out a harness, and Blake gets a pretty good idea of what the rest of her _purchase_ includes.  
  
The dildo itself is purple, ridged, nothing lifelike about it; Yang flashes the darkness of a smirk, her eyes almost red in reflection, and easily finds the _yes, God, yes_ pooling on Blake’s tongue, between her legs. The sheets might’ve survived before this; not now. She’s leaning up on her elbows, knees pressed together, and she can feel the way she _shivers_ at the sight of it, can feel the way she _drips._  
  
“Oh,” she says, but it comes out sounding like _ruin me._  
  
That’s a message Yang doesn’t need words to understand.  
  
\--  
  
“Mm,” Blake hums as Yang slides deliciously inside of her, adjusting in a way that has Blake biting hard on her lip. “I thought it was _your_ birthday, not mine.”  
  
“I think this is just one of those _mutually beneficial_ things,” Yang says, both of them dissolving into laughter, and, well, that’s part of what love _is,_ isn’t it? Someone who can make you laugh and cum in the same breath.  
  
\--  
  
Yang’s not into _events_ the way Nora is; she’s not renting out restaurants or wild trips across state lines, continental divides - at least, not _this_ time, she says with a wry grin - and opts for something that will undoubtedly end up just as noisy, but definitelymore private.  
  
It’s the beginning of August; the city simmers in dry heat, sunlight strong without being oppressive - it strikes more than it settles, leaves them to the relief of shady parks, air-conditioned rooms, and the ocean, calling. She’d had her assistant book caterers and a bar service months ago; she has a pool, she has a view. The answer’s obvious, in her opinion.  
  
People start to arrive around eight - Coco, Velvet, and Scarlet; Ilia, Neptune, and Sun, who stops to ask her if her property is haunted; Nebula and her date, a girl named Dew; Ruby’s best friend and producer, Penny, and another friend of hers, Oscar - and they waste no time heading to the bar, leaving their gifts and cards piled on the table near her kitchen doors. She’d invited her personal bodyguard, a large man by the name of Yatsuhashi, as a guest, but his instincts are wound too tight - he ends up at the door, carefully observing everyone who pulls up, walks in. She rolls her eyes, but lets him get on with it - he’s at least having a beer while he does so.  
  
“Ugh,” Nora says, wearing a loose dress over her bikini and dragging Yang in for a one-armed hug - they’d been having margaritas by the gate, greeting people as they walked in. Casual, that’s what Yang’d said - as casual as possible. “I _love_ a good pool party. With booze. Hi, Blake!”  
  
“Hi, Nora, Ren,” Blake says warmly, follows their leads - all of Yang’s friends are pretty tactile. Maybe it’s an extrovert thing. “Nice to see you again.”  
  
“Oh, and there’s _poker,_ ” Nora says, catching sight of the table over Blake’s shoulder. “Yang, you know us well.”  
  
“I’m gonna double the five grand I won last time,” Yang jabs back, and, yeah - Blake should’ve expected this. They’re people with money, and they like to use it. She misses whatever Nora says next, but it doesn’t matter - Pyrrha’s behind her with Jaune, and the minute she steps into the backyard, she’s scanning with an intention: there’s either someone she’s waiting for find, or someone she’ll be relieved if she doesn’t.  
  
In Pyrrha’s case, it seems to be both: she catches sight of someone at the bar and seems happy to see them, but troubled by it; Blake can’t turn her head to look without giving herself away. She’s got an idea, though, and it’s enough.  
  
“I thought this was a pool party,” Pyrrha teases, eyeing Yang’s attire; she’s still the most dressed, a pair of shorts on and a loose tank-top. She takes it as the challenge it is, sweeps her shirt over her head and tosses it on an unoccupied lawn chair; Blake doesn’t bother feigning disinterest - she watches appreciatively, stare trained on her defined abs before working its way up, her cleavage, her collarbone, her shoulders.  
  
“I was waiting for you,” Yang says, teasing tone miles wide. “It’s not a party without you.”  
  
But Pyrrha keeps an arm slung gratefully around her shoulders as they walk towards the bar, Jaune trailing behind, and Blake thinks there’s truth to it, too.  
  
Pyrrha doesn’t look at Weiss sitting beside the firepit. Weiss doesn’t look at her, either.  
  
\--  
  
Blake’s stretched out across a two-person raft they’d ordered off Amazon a week prior, Yang next to her with her hair wet and plastered to her face; they’re talking to Coco and Velvet, who have squeezed themselves into the same donut-themed innertube, plastic cups held in their hands and exchanging kisses every so often. Ruby’s tossing a ball around in the shallow end with Penny and Oscar, but other than a few close calls, nobody’s too rowdy - they know better than to spill alcohol in her pool. Yang had worried about Sun and Neptune; _testosterone,_ she’d said, but instead--  
  
Well, Neptune’s sitting on the edge of the jacuzzi, feet solidly on a step, and Sun’s next to him, patiently trying to coax him deeper while intermittently taking selfies; he isn’t the only one. His attempts don’t seem to be working. She keeps her laughter to herself; he’d put on a brave face when she’d invited them, but Jesus, it’s like he’s on the Titanic as it’s sinking.  
  
A subtle snort makes itself known to her; Blake’s apparently followed her line of sight. “I feel bad laughing, but it’s so pathetic,” she sighs, and Yang takes her opportunities.  
  
“No, you _should_ feel bad,” she says seriously, one hand going to the smooth, damp skin of Blake’s side. “He’s your friend. You’re a bitch. Time to repent.”  
  
Blake processes what she’s about to do the split second before she does it; the threat is already present on her mouth, in the slant of her eyes, and then she’s sliding off the raft as Yang flips them over into the warm water.  
  
“You _bitch,_ ” she sputters as she breaches the surface, sweeping her hair away from her face. Yang only laughs, her feet touching the bottom; they’re at an incline, and Blake’s forced to tread water. She finds Blake’s waist, tugs her in, lighter than air, lighter than nothingness. Like she might just float away if Yang doesn’t tie her down.  
  
But her smile peeks out in the end; she wraps her arms around Yang’s neck, slants their lips together and kisses her, doesn’t care who’s watching. She’d been introduced to every single one of these people as Yang’s girlfriend, and she won’t act like she’s anything less.  
  
_Acting’s_ never been her thing, anyway.  
  
\--  
  
Oh, some nights, some nights; they’ll write novels about this one. Or songs.  
  
Here’s the problem with intimacy, with secrecy, with alcohol: they don’t mix. They’re all the same sort; things that fill and spill and destroy, and combined create storms. Not perfect ones. Not even close.  
  
They’re all Yang’s friends, all people she trusts; she should’ve been a little less trusting of herself.  
  
Blake looks too _good,_ that’s the first problem; she’s in black one-piece with a low back and the chest dipping down her sternum, held together by criss-crossing strings. She keeps one hand wrapped around her cup and the other around Yang’s neck, fingers absentmindedly tangling in her hair.  
  
Yang can’t let her go. That’s the second.  
  
She has Blake pressed against her for hours - has their fingers linked, has Blake stitched to her side, has their mouths meeting outside of cover. They play poker and Blake’s setlled in her lap, bottom lip tucked between her teeth as she thinks - expressions slathered across her face, reluctantly placing bill after bill of Yang’s money as the stakes raise, finally saying _call_ over the rim of a shot glass - and promptly sighs as she reveals a royal flush.  
  
All pairs of eyes turn to her, some jaws hanging open; it’s seconds until the objections start, the disbelief and outrage.  
  
“Is that, like, good?” she asks, feigning stupidity.  
  
“Are you _serious?!_ ” Nora nearly screams, breaking eardrums.  
  
“No,” Blake replies cooly, smirk wickedly midnight, something of a chant. She reaches for the cash piled in the center of the table. “I’m not an idiot. And I’m not an actor. But apparently I have an incredibly good poker face.” She thumbs through the bills, stacking them in front of her with intent, and then she turns and twists in Yang’s arms, searching for her mouth.  
  
Someone _boos_ them as they kiss; someone else shuts them up. “It’s her birthday,” comes Pyrrha’s reproachful voice in the midst of the chaos. “Let her make out with her girlfriend.”  
  
“Her _hustler_ girlfriend!”  
  
Their lips break apart, and Yang’s voice comes crooning into her ear, hands still wound around her waist. “You’re too hot for your own good,” she murmurs, gleefully dark, and she’s drunk, conjoining thoughts: “Now they’ll know not to underestimate you.”  
  
“And you?” Blake asks. “What would you have done?”  
  
“Against you?” Yang says, and her smile powers the stars. “Baby, like I’ve ever stood a chance.”  
  
She thinks someone takes a picture. She can’t bring herself to care.  
  
\--  
  
It’s nearly four when people finally start to leave, gathering their things and piling into the tinted black cars idling on the street. The sky is rotating around them; the earth is slipping out from underneath their feet. Blake has her by the hand, by the neck, by the heart. She has a bed with their names on it.  
  
“Wait,” Blake says, holding her to the living room. “I have something for you.”  
  
“For me?” Yang slurs, and buries her face in the crook of Blake’s neck. That’s one way to stop the world spinning - cut if off at its source. Blake’s the root of it, anyway, probably birthed the Big Bang from her blood. “I already got everything I want.”  
  
“No, you didn’t, you cheesy dumbass,” Blake says, but it’s achingly fond. She pulls back, reaches for something sitting casually on top of Yang’s sound system, steadying her with a palm pressed to her shoulder. And then she straightens up.  
  
The world - oh, Yang was right. Blake hands it to her in the shape of a CD case.  
  
“You wanted a song,” Blake says softly, heart spreading out in her chest like mapping boulevards, blood burning oil in old city lights. “Have them all.”  
  
The CD case is plain, purple, and scribbled across the front of the CD is _until you_ in Blake’s own handwriting. Yang stares at the plastic in her hands, the disc, runs her fingers over the words like she’s hallucinating them.  
  
She looks up at Blake, lost and awed. “‘ _Until You’_?” she reads, and it’s clearly about her, even without context. “That’s - that’s what you named your album?”  
  
“Nothing’s felt right,” she says, an echo from a morning in a cafe the week prior with her hair filtering sunlight. “Until you.”  
  
“I’m me, right?” Yang asks, just to be perfectly clear. Her head feels like an aquarium. “I mean - _you_ \- the ‘you’ is me, right?”  
  
If affection were tangible - if love could break dams, crack land - Blake’s would be a flood, would devastate and ravage. Instead, it hits in the shape of a mouth catching Yang’s own, kissing her with the same sort of urgency, fingers curled around the back of her neck.  
  
“Yes,” Blake whispers, breaking away. She rests their foreheads together. “Yes, you drunk idiot. It’s about you.”  
  
Yang turns it over in her hands, still staring dumbly. “Can I listen to it?”  
  
“That’s kind of the point.”  
  
She lets out a laugh, amused by the bite that comes with Blake’s vulnerability. “Are you gonna listen with me or are you gonna run out of the room?”  
  
Blake snatches it out of her hands, turns back to her sound system and powers it on. “You, sit,” she commands sternly, as though the album itself is a privilege and she’s about to take it all back. “I’m putting it on.”  
  
But she’s noticeably red as she worms her way against Yang’s side, the low opening bass notes trailing after her like they’re putting up a fight. Her voice comes in. Yang catches breath she hadn’t even realized she’d been losing.  
  
Blake sounds _different._ As if her first album had been recorded after months without speaking, forcing it raw and uncut, and this time she’d been prepared - this time, she’d told the truth because she’d wanted to, not because it’d eat her alive if she didn’t.  
  
“Oh,” Yang says, tightening her arm reflexively. “You - you sound like _you._ ”  
  
If it were anyone else, they would’ve laughed, Yang’s sure of it - but Blake only tilts her chin down, presses her cheek against Yang’s collarbone, knowing exactly what she means. Her heart is beating loud enough to join the percussion. There’s so much she’s wanted to say and she’s saying it all perfectly.  
  
_Maybe I’m selfish._ Blake’s voice fills the room, floods her veins. _I wanted it to be me._  
  
“Yeah,” Blake whispers again, and in the dim lighting of the room with an echo of herself playing softly, Yang swears she’s witnessing a prophecy. “It’s you.”  
  
\--  
  
She always wakes up early when she’s hungover. It’s normally a curse; today, it’s no different.  
  
Actually, it’s worse.  
  
She’s staring blearily at her phone with her brain pounding against her skull when Glynda calls, and somehow she already knows. The vibrating turns into a tool of hypnotism, takes her back to details: she sees it, the flash of a camera. Sees it all night long, from everyone, selfies and snaps and stories.  
  
And she knows there’s no way they made it undetected.  
  
“Hello?” she finally answers, voice hoarse. Blake sleeps soundly on beside her, head turned away and hair like ink.  
  
“Yang,” Glynda says, the timbre of a funeral march.  
  
“I know,” Yang cuts her off. “How? Who?”  
  
She can almost _see_ Glynda’s lips in a line, words fighting for space in her mouth. “Multiple people, actually,” she finally answers. “A few Instagram posts. One from Sun Wukong. You’re in the background of a selfie together - it wasn’t his fault; I doubt he even realized you were in it - and your fans proceeded to dissect every photo from the party for traces of the two of you. There’s another of her sitting in your lap.”  
  
“Press?”  
  
“Nothing yet. But there will be.”  
  
Strangely, all she feels is a sense of relief; maybe it’s about _time_ , she numbly thinks _._ Six months and countless lives. Maybe it was a miracle they’d made it as long as they had, tempting fate like a wild animal. Maybe it’s their turn to see what they can become rather than hiding from it.  
  
“But none on purpose?” she asks, messy with a point.  
  
Glynda pauses, gets the implication and the importance of it. “No,” she says. “None were on purpose.”  
  
“Okay.” She breathes in and out through her nose, palms her forehead with her free hand. Blake’s spine peaks out from the sheets, creviced and sharp, like every piece of her used to be a weapon and hasn’t quite lost its instincts. “Okay.”  
  
“I’m assuming you don’t want to tackle this officially.”  
  
“No,” Yang says, and that’s one thing she knows for certain: _no comment_ will work wonders for them, give them space and time. “We’ll - I’ll talk to her.”  
  
“Very well,” Glynda says, and softens. “Happy birthday, by the way.” It’s stated at an odd lull in the conversation, but nevertheless sincere. Yang feels her smile pull reluctantly; despite the uncertainty, it’d been a great night.  
  
“Thanks.”  
  
It beeps, signals the end. She decides to see the evidence for herself before giving it to Blake; it’s all still up, she’s sure - seven in the morning, there’s no way Sun’s awake - and it’s actually one of the first posts on her feed, exploding popularity--  
  
She sighs, almost laughs at the same time; it’s a photo series, and the ticking bomb is the second one. Her hair’s kind of blending into his in the pool behind him and Blake’s obviously wrapped around her, both their faces pressed together and tilted towards someone else’s antics - might’ve been Nora, it’s hard to tell - while Scarlet takes up the other the other half of the frame, smiling.  
  
That alone could’ve been ignored, avoided, but the comments capture a larger picture, paint a narrative to follow:  
  
**jessx10** is that blake and yang xiao long in the background?  
**winteryouth** omg are they dating  
**fake0rfr** theyre in nora valkyries story too holy shit  
**bimdao** dude you got invited to yang xiao long’s birthday party? how?  
**samthompson_** @winteryouthyeah they are!  
  
She backs out, finds Nora’s profile; her story’s as chaotic as it always is, and Yang actually misses herself the first time she watches it through, distracted by Jaune’s horrible attempt at flip cup. She’d been clearly careful to not capture them early on, but the drunker she gets, the looser her movements become, until finally--  
  
Oh, it’s the poker game, of _course._ She’d been too blown away by Blake’s performance to keep quiet about it. She films Pyrrha at the table, who only half-smirks and shrugs as if to say, _yeah, she got us,_ and then Nora swings around to her other side, catching Ren’s reaction. And it’s that small moment, that _in-between,_ where Blake’s on Yang’s lap, arms around her neck and twining gold between her fingers. It’s sickening - in that single freeze-frame, they’re the envy of fairy tales.  
  
She texts Nora first - she’ll leave Sun for Blake. _u drunk bitch._  
  
But she doesn’t expect a response for at least another hour, so she faces the inevitable, spreads her fingers along the blade of Blake’s shoulder, follows with her lips. It takes minutes of coaxing for her to stir - head rolling on her neck, elbow raising sharply as her hand darts to rub at her eyes, wincing against the pressure inside of her skull - and then her eyelids blink open, slow and delicate. Her makeup is smudged underneath her eyes, and her mouth is chapped, pink.  
  
Even with the apocalypse dawning, she’s still the most important thing in the room, any room, anywhere - those people _knowing_ fade from her mind, fade from existence itself - Blake manages a smile and turns over, sheets pooling around her hips, chest bare. Yang thumbs her cheekbone, her jawline, her bottom lip - and then down, the arch of her neck, her collarbone - Blake sucks in a breath when she ghosts over her nipple, indents of her ribcage--  
  
“Hey.” She waits for Blake to meet her eyes. “You know I love you, right?”  
  
Blake smiles, relaxed and unaware; sometimes it’s a blessing, not knowing. “Yeah.”  
  
“Good.” She brushes Blake’s hair away from her face, shifting away from the course she’d been heading. “It’s out.”  
  
“Out?” she repeats, exhaustion evident underneath her confusion. “What’s…” and then she’s metal, bones like wire and veins hardened to their core. “Oh.” The word is too quiet, too full of certainty. “ _Oh._ ”  
  
She’s remembering, too; their friends and their phones, their inability to keep their hands off each other. “Yeah,” Yang says, keeps it factual and distant. She’ll never forget Blake’s panic from months earlier, the hollow sea of her throat, eyes like shipwrecks. “It was an accident. Sun and Nora.”  
  
Processing takes time; she watches Blake’s jaw clench and release, watches her pupils dart down and focus on Yang’s body, intertwined with hers. Watches Blake make up her mind to run, to stay. Watches patiently and waits.  
  
She won’t fight. Blake’s had enough fighting to last her the rest of her life.  
  
And, finally, she sighs - similar to Yang’s immediate reaction, barest hint of a reluctant laugh underneath. “One for me, one for you,” she grumbles into her pillow, readjusting her head with an irritated _thump._ “Christ. That’s what happens when you give a bunch of drunk extroverts social media access.”  
  
The rigid cast of her skeleton melts, becomes pliable and molten. Tension drips from her like wax until it’s gone entirely. The sun hits the right angle through the curtains, curls up between them. It’s just as soft as it’s always been, just as beautiful.  
  
For the first time, Yang realizes, nothing’s different in the light.  
  
She presses closer. Thinks of living underneath Blake’s skin. Says _I love you._  
  
“Oh, baby,” Blake says in response, “it’s seven in the fucking morning. I love you, but I’m so hungover I might die in your arms, and I doubt it’ll be as romantic as your movies make it out to be.”  
  
“Nobody’s ever _died in my arms,_ ” Yang says, grin unfurling. “You’re a fake fan.”  
  
“Semantics.”  
  
And they’re finally growing up.  
  
\--  
  
Sundays; they’re good for something, lookout points to stare at the oncoming storms of Mondays and plan.  
  
In theory. All they _actually_ manage to do is lounge around in bed for half the day, ignoring the world beyond the windows - Nora texts her back around ten, screaming _OHMYGODIMSOSORRY,_ and Sun sends Blake some incomprehensible string of emojis - but it’s far too late and they all know it. TMZ already has an article up. That’s kind of the beginning of the end.  
  
Noon finally sees them rise to shower; Blake swears she can smell tequila on Yang’s skin like it’s seeping out of her, while Yang argues the whiskey on Blake’s. But the water has a soothing, healing effect; breathing steam seems to cleanse their lungs, their heads. Blake tilts back under the spray, runs her hands through her hair.  
  
“He’s going to know,” she states calmly. Her eyelids stay firmly shut. “And I’m trying. Trying to move past that.”  
  
“He’s not going to touch you,” Yang says. “Or me.”  
  
“I know.” She parts her lips, exhales a sigh. “I’m allowed to have good things in my life. I know that now.”  
  
Like a mantra, like a promise; she won’t let this become something that forces her steps backwards, right over the ledge she used to hang from. She’s already learned those lessons.  
  
They don’t bother getting dressed; they dry off, slip right back between the sheets as if locking themselves into a bunker. Explosions, earthquakes - nothing reaches them here. Blake passes time counting freckles, ribs. Yang watches her lashes sink as she blinks slowly, the way you turn pages of a book.  
  
It strikes her, right then, how close Blake was to becoming lost.  
  
“You’re brave.” She lets it fall gently, lets it flutter, something with wings that builds a nest. Blake’s eyes flash to her own, surprise evident. She continues, “I just think - we’re always acknowledging what happened to you. But I’ve never - I don’t think I realized how - how brave you had to be. To keep going afterward. To build yourself back up.”  
  
Automatically, Blake bites her bottom lip into her mouth, struck and unresponsive; Yang understands. It’s not really an easy reply. Her eyes glisten slightly in the light, but her gaze flickers briefly down and then the shine is gone.  
  
She retracts her hand, fingers pulling in like a loose fist, before they spread as wide as they can go and mold to Yang’s hip; and then she drags herself as close as she can possibly get, arm curling and hand shifting up to Yang’s shoulder, digging in.  
  
Yang cradles her - it’s so rare Blake allows herself total vulnerability, allows herself to _feel_ all the places she’s been, all the people - and when her breath hits Yang’s collarbone, she’s surprised it doesn’t create craters. “Thank you.” Swallows. “I’m - nobody’s ever...told me that before.”  
  
“You don’t have to thank me.”  
  
“I know.” She moves her head away from underneath Yang’s chin. Her lip is red from the pressure. Even now, she doesn’t cry. “I - I want to be. I want to be the kind of person you see me as.”  
  
“I’m not seeing anything that isn’t there,” Yang says, intending only to comfort, but Blake’s mouth quirks at an edge, a finger slipping to her mouth.  
  
“Shh,” Blake says. “I was getting somewhere.” Yang keeps her lips pressed together; Blake traces their outline, the silence purposeful. And then she says, “Fuck it,” but there’s a quiet resolve, a battle both won and lost simultaneously. Sometimes breaking even is enough. “I can’t deal with speculation. I don’t want to be hounded because I’m movie star _Yang Xiao Long’s_ possible summer fling, or whatever the fuck _OK!_ is gonna call me. If it’s out, I want it _out_.”  
  
It takes a moment of comprehension, but the seconds passing see the take-over of Yang’s smile, how it stems and grows; she says, “Are you saying…?”  
  
“Shockingly,” Blake says, “yes.”  
  
\--  
  
**blake belladonna’s girlfriend __** _@yangxiaolong ·_ 15m  
.@blakebelladonna hello gorgeous  
  
**Blake Belladonna** _@blakebelladonna_ · 14m  
_Replying to @yangxiaolong_  
yang.  
  
**blake belladonna’s girlfriend __** _@yangxiaolong ·_ 14m  
_Replying to @blakebelladonna_  
yes dear  
  
**Blake Belladonna** _@blakebelladonna_ · 13m  
_Replying to @yangxiaolong_  
this is not what I meant. your publicist is dialing your number as we speak  
  
**blake belladonna’s girlfriend __** _@yangxiaolong ·_ 11m  
_Replying to @blakebelladonna_  
well it’ll be fun while it lasts  
  
\--  
  
Blake’s imagined this moment - the fear she’d feel, the direction it’d send her running - and it’s so far away from her mind’s personal showcase of _The Worst That Could Happen._ If anything, it’s amusing, and oddly touching - most of the girls replying are probably not straight, Yang mentions, and it’s an aspect she’d never thought about. Not like suddenly being a role model, but her and Yang existing at all. Alive and together. For some people, she realizes, it looks a lot like hope.  
  
_OMG,_ are every single one of Blake’s Twitter notifications, accompanied by some kind of crying emoji or hyperventilating gif. One girl types _BLAKE BE NICER TO HER SHE LOVES YOU_ before she apparently combusts, tweet trailing off into incoherent gibberish. It has thirty-six likes within one minute.  
  
“Yeah, Blake,” Yang says from beside her, laughing as she watches Blake scroll. So, this is _one_ way to do it, own your coming-out. “Be nicer to me, you absolute _monster._ ”  
  
She grins, lifts a hand to Yang’s jaw and draws her in for a quick kiss. Her chest unfolds, giddy and high above it all. Yang’s hers. And now everybody knows. “I’m nice to you in real life,” she says. “Isn’t that what counts?”  
  
“No,” Yang says seriously, licking her lips as she pulls away. “My fans are like, _rabid._ You better watch out.”  
  
Blake rolls her eyes, goes back to their Twitter thread. She can’t admit the truth. Can’t admit she’s already loving every second.  
  
\--  
  
**Blake Belladonna** _@blakebelladonna_ · 2m  
_Replying to @maidenyang, @yangxiaolong_  
she’s sitting next to me. I’ll be nice to her in person  
  
**blake belladonna’s girlfriend __** _@yangxiaolong ·_ 1m  
_Replying to @blakebelladonna, @maidenyang_  
thank u to my fans for making this happen…..so much love x  
  
**Blake Belladonna** _@blakebelladonna_ · 1m  
_Replying to @yangxiaolong, @maidenyang_  
okay, I take it back.  
  
**blake belladonna’s girlfriend __** _@yangxiaolong ·_ now  
_Replying to @blakebelladonna, @maidenyang_  
she just said “you’re so stupid” out loud but kissed me anyway so who’s the real genius here? not her  
  
**ivy.** _@maidenyang_ · now  
_Replying to @yangxiaolong, @blakebelladonna_  
IM AHVIBNG A FUCKIFG STROKE OH MY GOD!!!!!!!!!! OYU HAD THAT WHOLE CONVO SISTTING NEXT TO EACH OTHER I LVEOMYOU  
  
\--  
  
It feels like getting into bed at the end of a long, long day.  
  
\--  
  
Sun opens Yang’s Instastory, expecting damage control. Expecting normalcy. Expecting _check out my athleisure wear_ or _on a hike in Fryman Canyon._  
  
What he _doesn’t_ expect is Blake, taking up the entire frame and half-naked in her bed.  
  
He’s in the middle of eating a 7-layer burrito from Taco Bell, and the minute he processes what he’s seeing, half of it falls out of his mouth and back onto the paper, causing Neptune to glare at him in disgust.  
  
“Dude,” he says, pulling a face. “That’s gross.”  
  
“ _Dude,_ ” Sun says. “Did you _see_ Yang’s story?”  
  
“No. Why?”  
  
“Look,” Sun says, because now he actually needs the proof that he isn’t hallucinating. Despite the events of the previous night, he hadn’t expected them to _embrace_ it.  
  
Blake’s wickedly sinful in a black kimono robe tied loosely at the waist, revealing only the barest hint of deep purple lingerie underneath, looking at the camera with a smirk any devil would rise from hell to serve. She’s sitting on what he assumes is Yang’s bed, cross-legged, her laptop open in front of her - _that_ he recognizes by the _Girls Invented Punk Rock Not England_ sticker on the back - and they’re clearly dropping in on a conversation.  
  
_“Meet me in the middle,”_ Yang says, like it’s just another day without the curtains drawn. “ _Plain Hawaiian style. I refuse to compromise on anchovies. We’ve had this debate a million times.”_  
  
Blake only laughs, crooks her head; she knows she’s being filmed, and she’s letting it happen. _“Oh, that’s it,”_ she says. “ _Alexa, play The Middle by Zedd from Spotify.”_  
  
_“Oh, no,”_ comes Yang’s voice again, amused; the opening ticks through the speaker on her bedside table. “ _You have_ got _to stop doing that - Alexa, stop, no--”_  
  
_“Alexa only listens to me.”_  
  
_“I bought her!”_  
  
The video cuts, skipping forward in time; Blake’s following along with the words, now facing Yang, laptop pushed to the side. The music itself is low enough that Blake’s voice is what shines through, and it’s as stunning as it’s always been, attractive and smooth and seductive without effort. Sun’s surprised Yang hasn’t dropped dead from the sound alone, but then, he remembers, Yang probably hears her sing like this more than anyone.  
  
“ _Baby, why don’t you just meet me in the middle.”_ The camera shakes like Yang’s trying not to laugh and failing miserably. “ _I’m losing my mind just a little--”_  
  
_“I’m losing_ my _mind,”_ Yang says, on the verge of exasperated and something _else,_ bordering sexual frustration. Well. He can’t really blame her, despite the fact that they _look_ like they’d spent the day having incredible sex and not much else.  
  
Blake breaks on a laugh. It’s real, too, not something for an audience - Yang’s influence and softer things. He remembers a time when she rarely spoke, let alone smiled. He thinks of saying _thank you._  
  
It cuts again, the third and final update, and it’s Blake holding the phone, trained on Yang leaning against the headboard, hair spiraling messily over her shoulders. She’s wearing a red-and-black flannel loosely buttoned, sheet bundled around her waist; if Blake looked like sex on her own, the two of them together look like every sin he’s ever been warned about.  
  
_“You look so gay,”_ Blake says appreciatively. _“But so hot.”_  
  
_“It’s because I’m gay_ ,” Yang says, holding a slice of pizza covered in pineapples, but the both of them laugh before she’s able to lift it to her mouth, and he wonders if this is part of what love is - laughter, getting in the way of everything else.  
  
\--  
  
_tell yang her instastory is a big hit ;),_ Sun’s text flashes across her screen. _also sry again._  
  
Another version of her already has a grave dug in a garden, soil fresh. Another version of her is screaming, her mouth bloody, throat of shattered glass. Another version of her never, ever forgives him.  
  
Yang has Netflix pulled up on her TV, scrolling through the comedy specials. She licks marinara sauce off her thumb and lets out a surprised laugh at a joke in one of the automatic previews. Tomorrow, she’ll go back to stars and screens and sets, go back with a guitar pick for a heart and steel strings for a nervous system, leave her phone face-up and answer _yes_ to anyone who asks.  
  
_it’s okay,_ Blake replies, and she means it.  



	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> descriptions of violence in this chapter!

“ _Blake Belladonna!_ ” 

She winces, tearing the phone away from her ear; the volume sparks an instant, Pavlovian flash of guilt, like she’s ten years old again being scolded for climbing the large, disease-infested elm tree in their backyard. But it’s the tone underneath that revels in the _true_ intent of the call - stern, furious, outraged, and--

“ _I can’t believe you didn’t tell your own parents that you were dating a movie star!_ ” 

\--Delightedly, wonderingly impressed. 

She should’ve seen this coming.

“Um,” Blake answers, worrying a short nail between her teeth. “It kind of - it happened pretty fast, and we - um - had to keep it quiet, you know? For...obvious reasons.” 

_“Well, of course--_ ” her mother waves the excuse away quickly “-- _but even so! Tell us everything, sweetheart. How long have you been together?”_

“Six months.” She’s glad Yang isn’t here to watch her have this conversation, flustered and embarrassed.

 _“And where did you meet?”_

“She had Weiss set up a private meeting with us after a show.” 

“ _Wow_.” Kali sounds appropriately dazzled by it. “ _Look at you - so incredible you’re capturing the attention of celebrities!”_

“ _Mom._ ” The instincts to validate are always there; Blake’s career path had been a less than traditional choice in their family, but they’d supported her throughout every shitty dive bar and hole-in-the-wall music lounge regardless. Privately, she’s convinced that her mom doesn’t actually realize how successful her band is, stuck with the image of how they looked starting out at eighteen. 

_“Oh, I’m allowed to be proud of you!”_ Kali says. “ _And I know we can’t really know Yang from her public appearances and movies, but she always seemed like such a nice girl. Really down-to-earth._ ” 

“She is,” Blake says, smiling against her will. “You’d...you’d really love her.” 

“ _Quite a departure from your last relationship_ ,” her mother adds, as if she can’t stop herself from getting the confirmation. It stings, even with the necessary context. She doesn’t say it to hurt; she says it to be certain.

“Yeah,” Blake answers, somber on principle. She gazes out the window of her own apartment, sees a vision of herself at twenty-two, wearing Neptune’s too-big sweater and slowly putting her pieces back together. Sees her parents at her side, their eyes trained on her crumbling form and a lease agreement held in their hands. She blinks and it’s gone. “I...I learned. And she’s - she wouldn’t. Ever.” 

Silence presses for a moment - Kali absorbs the words, looks for their cracks and cuts, hoping to discern the truth of them. Her voice is much gentler when she speaks again. “ _Okay_ ,” she says, tender like she’s tucking Blake into bed. “ _Well, we’d love to meet her someday. Maybe we’ll take a trip out for the holidays.”_

“That’d be nice,” Blake says, leaning her forehead against the glass, fingertips leaving imprints. “I’d like that.” 

They speak for a few more minutes, and at the end of it, all Blake’s left with is a bone-deep exhaustion and a sweltering triumph; she’d forgotten what it felt like to talk to people who held the weight of your entire history in their hands. But she’s stronger now; she doesn’t collapse under the pressure, doesn’t grind herself into dust. 

She’s where she’s supposed to be, with the people she’s supposed to be with. She isn’t enduring it anymore. She’s free.

\--

The fallout isn’t what she expects. As in, strangely, it doesn’t seem to exist.

Yang’s unsurprised, unruffled; she’s been out for years, but she’s weathered through in spite of it, gorgeous enough for her straight audiences to overlook. If anything, the enemies Blake’s gained are outrageously amusing: fans who’d fiercely believed Yang and Pyrrha had been in a secret relationship, only to have their hopes dashed.

She marvels about it to Ilia, who only gives her an odd look. “What’d you think was gonna happen?”

“I don’t know,” Blake says. All her ideas had always been so abstract - flooded cemeteries, coffin lids cracked and swinging off their hinges. The sky on fire, oxygen burning reds and greens and yellows. Blood spatter without a source. “I thought it’d - be _different._ ” 

“It is.” Ilia waits, but receives nothing further. “You’re dating _Yang Xiao Long._ She’s a world-famous movie star. People hate you for this, Blake. You’re gonna get asked about her for the rest of your fucking _life._ ” 

“Hm.” She mulls it over, but can’t find a light _the rest of her life_ doesn’t look good under, can’t find a bad angle. She smiles as she turns away. “I think I’d be okay with that.”

\--

Weiss, unsurprisingly, is the one who puts it in perspective - she’s always been able to overlook the bold, read the finer print underneath. Yes, they’re everywhere; every gossip site runs an article, BuzzFeed creates a rough timeline complete with GIFs, and _People_ has a short, cute feature - but somehow it’s all surface-level and supportive. Somehow she’s missing the underbelly, the dark dusty roads, the sinister and the threatening. Until Weiss.

It’s only been a week since they’ve become public domain, a concept for the world to take and mold like clay. She’s barely on social media anyway, and they’re both still busy working. The band’s preview to their executives is coming up; they’ve got at least three definitive singles, Sage and Fox had agreed confidently, and despite the long process to come, she’s more comfortable with herself then she’s ever been. Weiss works as their go-between, setting up their meetings; to the execs, Blake’s publicity is only a sign of a brighter future, an upward climb. 

Maybe Blake’s too high in the atmosphere to see the ground. Maybe she’s so used to being isolated that she barely recognizes she’s doing it. Maybe she just doesn’t want to know.

Weiss notices her composure during a rare work lunch. Yang’s on-set, where she always is. Neptune and Sun are sitting close, debating between burgers and sandwiches. Ilia’s staring into her coffee like it’s a crystal ball. She’s probably hungover, Blake thinks, and for once her thoughts don’t turn inwards to herself after.

Until Weiss says, “I hope you know we’re going to have to talk about this.” 

It’s unexpected, even though it shouldn’t be. She’s their manager. Things touch her because that’s her job. “This?” 

“You,” she says. “And Yang.” 

Blake blinks, mouth curling bemusedly. “Why?” 

“Because this doesn’t just impact you anymore,” Weiss says. “It impacts the band. You aren’t _Blake Belladonna, lead singer of Menagerie_. You’re _Yang Xiao Long’s girlfriend and lead singer of Menagerie, Blake Belladonna._ ” 

“So?” 

Weiss’s mouth tightens, eyes on their way to slits. “Blake, you’re getting death threats.” 

That’s a point made; the silence seems to encompass the room. Blake says, “What?” 

“I get why you’ve only seen the positive feedback,” Weiss continues slowly, drumming her fingers across her menu once, almost a nervous tick. “It’s...overwhelming. Yang has a - a _passionate_ fanbase, and plenty of them have accepted you. But there are plenty of them who haven’t.”

She keeps her mouth calm, her throat dry. “Okay,” she replies. “So what does this mean?” 

“You have a connotation,” Weiss says. “You’re dating a woman - half the population still thinks _bisexuals_ are a myth, so you’re going to be fighting that battle more than you’re used to. Not to mention they won’t _like_ it. They’re going to comb through your history, everything you’ve ever done to prove you aren’t good enough for her.” That’s the first thought that breaks through: _history._ The idea of hands bursting through soil, dragging her back - that’s enough to light that wick of panic, the one she’s been so good at batting out. 

“Blake,” Weiss says, quieter - Blake’s fear must be visible, must be glowing like a flame, too. “People will use him. I can keep him from you _professionally,_ but when people find out about him, I can’t control that.” 

_Control,_ that’s what it always comes back to - what she’s allowed to say, do, wear, write - whose hand she’s allowed to who hold, whose lips she’s allowed to kiss - can she even _sing_ again with her throat raw and bloodied, with fingerprint-bruises standing out against her skin like a vibrant paint, like the art of suffering itself - there’s a lot of red in the room, she distantly catalogues, bones like sand, skin like lead, her teeth are rattling in her skull--

“Weiss, knock it off,” Sun interrupts, and the surprise from his sharp tone alone serves as a slow antidote to the poison she’d suddenly found herself submerged in. “I’m sorry, but come on - you know better than _anyone_ how much he - he…” he trails off, sets his jaw, comes back steady. “You’re freaking her out. I get you’re trying to help, but you’re - you’re better than this.” He manages a quick, forgiving glance towards Blake. “You don’t need to be so...so cruel, to be taken seriously.” 

Nobody’s ever heard him make a speech so impassioned, so emphatic. Weiss’s expression pulls tight, anger on her tongue, nails lacquered with a murderous intent. Her gaze flickers to Blake and away, like she’d seen enough war in those few seconds. She wants to fight, that’s the thing. It’s Weiss. Some days, Blake isn’t sure she knows how to do anything else.

 _Some,_ key word - and _some_ is apparently not today. 

She says, calm and cordial, “I apologize,” but she isn’t gentle about it. Sometimes that’s the most they can ask of her. “I could have been more tactful.” 

“It’s fine,” Blake says, even though it isn’t, and they all know it. She reaches underneath her ribcage, pulls out the words she’s learned to tell herself - but they don’t release with the usual fragility. They’re pried out, messy and dirty, parts of herself still clinging to them. “I understand the risks, but it’s my life, and it’s none of his _fucking_ business.”

She catches Sun’s eye again, and she’s startled to see him smiling, full on display of something that looks a lot like pride.

\--

Out of spite, out of defiance - perhaps she and Weiss are more similar than she’d realized - she posts a picture to Instagram ten minutes later of Yang with a smile on her face as she dozes off in the grass, and her caption is a single sunflower. 

She doesn’t feel guilty. She doesn’t look over her shoulder. It’s her right.

\--

Of course, people are determined to ruin what they can’t have, and their relationship is no different. Yang doesn’t _try_ to keep tabs on it, but Nora loves headline-hunting, combing gossip sites on early mornings and sending the dumbest articles she finds to her friends for the drama of it. They’re always trashy, amusing, and entirely false. 

“Listen to this,” Yang snorts into her toast, sitting at her kitchen island in Blake’s purple silk robe; Blake’s beside her, wearing a black one. “ _Ladies’ Woman? Yang Xiao Long seen out in West Hollywood with Mysterious Brunette!_ ” She turns her phone around, deadpan to the point of disbelief; on her screen is the alleged offense, a picture of a woman talking to her while she holds a Starbucks drink in each hand. “A fan who asked me for a photo. And the name on both cups is _yours._ ” 

“Jesus,” Blake says, laughing despite herself - they’d developed the habit of using each other’s names for their orders, as it helped avoid public recognition. Even when ‘Yang’ happened to be called out, it tended to get ignored if the patrons couldn’t spot a tall blonde in the vicinity. “Is this what you deal with _all_ the time?” 

“Oh, don’t worry,” Yang says ominously. “She sent me one about _you,_ too.” 

“Me?” 

Yang scrolls a little further, taps at her screen, and slides her phone over again. Her expression doesn’t betray a thing. Blake glances down, finds--

_Actress Yang Xiao Long’s “Girlfriend” Blake Belladonna Caught In Cozy Canoodle with…_

It trails off; she clicks the link, scrolls to the photo, and promptly chokes on her tea. 

Instead of performing the Heimlich as Blake’s coughing up both lungs and a kidney, Yang only laughs hysterically; it’s a picture of _Weiss,_ of all fucking people, pulling her in for an awkward hug after their lunch meeting days prior. 

“Jesus _fucking_ Christ,” Blake finally gasps out, dropping Yang’s phone on the counter. The urge to gag doesn’t quite surface, but it’s close. “Weiss? _Her?_ ” 

“Weiss is cute,” Yang says with a straight face. “Punk-rock Weiss, with her beautiful white hair and business-casual attire, who walks in heels like she makes a living doing it. I can see it.” 

“Sounds like _you’re_ the one with the thing for Weiss,” Blake shoots back, wiping her mouth with a napkin. “Weiss. I’d rather die.” 

There’s something charming about the way Yang lets her expressions shine through - she could act off an apocalypse, but when it’s the two of them alone it’s like she’s forgotten how. Everything drips out of her, whether appropriate or not, and Blake loves her for it. 

In this instance, she tugs her mouth into a grimace, hint of disgust resting beneath her bottom lip, and it’s so fucking _rude._ “ _I’d_ rather die,” Yang echoes flatly, taking her phone back. “She’s pretty or whatever, but she’s the _opposite_ of my type.” 

“Clearly,” Blake points out, “as I’m right here.” 

Yang shoots her an odd look, a cross between confusion and embarrassment. “Oh, uh - I was talking about Pyrrha.” 

“I hate you.” 

“Woah. I’m gonna call _TMZ_ and tell them we were spotted arguing.” 

Blake puts her face in her hands, her smile winning out. Whatever spell they’re under, she theorizes, it’s looking impossible to break.

\--

“Hey, dumbass,” Nebula greets brightly on an early Monday morning in late August, traipsing into the hair-and-makeup trailer. “I hear Blake dumped you this weekend. Saw that in the _National Enquirer_ as I was checking out at Ralph’s _._ That’s rough.” 

Yang smirks, glancing up from her phone where she’s texting the girl in question. A Starbucks cup (caramel macchiato) rests on the vanity in front of her, and their makeup artists flits around her face with a brush. “Yeah,” she plays along. “I’m, like, heartbroken.” 

“I can tell.” Nebula takes her own chair, setting her own drink (chai latte) on the counter. “How’s the break-up sex? Good?” 

“You’re _so_ annoying,” Yang says, but her eye-roll’s friendly enough to not be misinterpreted. “Why are you in such a cheerful mood, anyway?”

“Some of us are getting laid by girls we’re still dating, Yang.” 

“I’m going to kill you.” 

“Oh, threats to my life,” Nebula says. “We’re close, huh?” 

“No.”

“Great. Wanna go out this weekend?” The invitation takes a minute to sink in. “Dew and I were thinking of going to The Peppermint Club in WeHo.” 

It _sounds_ familiar; she’s never been herself, but she’s almost positive Nora and Pyrrha have - Nora’s been everywhere. She loves a good party, and even more than that, loves being the one with the experience to direct the rest of them. “Is that, like, that sixties music lounge?” 

“Yep,” Nebula says. “We were thinking Saturday night?” 

“I’ll ask Blake,” Yang answers, typing out the text; it’s definitely something she’d like, but Yang’s not going to make decisions for her. She presses _send,_ moves on to other topics while she waits. “Excited for our kiss next week?” 

“ _Super_ excited,” she says, so dry she may as well be in drought. “My dreams are finally coming true. Can’t wait until Autumn gives me a note telling me my top lip is out of position.” 

“I loved last week when she told me I was holding your hand wrong.” 

“Haven’t you heard?” she says, and quotes their director, “‘Love is carefully choreographed, Yang.’” 

Even the team laughs; Yang’s phone lights up, vibrating, and Blake’s picture takes up her lockscreen - she’s on-stage with smoke dusting her, background of blues and purples and her guitar held in her hands like a gun - and there, _that’s_ fate, how she’s written _I’d love to, and I love you too_ \- Yang thinks of the night they met, thinks of empty theatres and tinted windows, thinks of back doors and alleyways, thinks of public crowds and closeness, and thinks--

 _Carefully choreographed._ She’d never phrase it that way herself, but there’s a transparency and a truth to it, in the end. 

\--

It’s the first time they’re photographed as a _couple,_ which, in itself, is both terrifying and exhilarating. Yang almost doesn’t take her hand as they’re lead into the venue, but the flashing lights, the desperate calling of their names - _YangYangYangBlakeBlakeBlake_ \- is easily enough to overwhelm, though she doesn’t show it. She hadn’t thought it’d affect her, hearing them called together as if chain-linked, bound; she reaches back, intertwines Blake’s fingers with hers. 

Blake only smiles, tiny at the corner of her mouth, and Yang realizes: here’s one experience they don’t share. They’re opposing ends of the same spectrum; Yang, who’s never had anything to hide, and Blake, finally out of hiding.

It’s not _bad,_ Yang decides as they make it past the doorway and the yelling dies behind them. It’s just annoying.

Nebula and her girlfriend Dew are already there, as well as their dedicated host for bottle service; Blake actually seems impressed as she glances around, though in her haughty, bored way - not out of ego, but of defense; she’s learned to keep her reactions muted. They never know who’s watching. 

The interior is a mix of velvet and geometric, various shades of red and dull orange; they’re seated closed to the stage, which is oddly designed but charming: the right half boasts a chair and sofa facing a knick-knack wall of sixties objects, a globe, a telephone, something that looks like an astronaut’s helmet - like they’d preserved a living room from the era and built the rest of the lounge around it. The instruments taking up the other half almost look out of place in comparison.

They greet each other lazily, not bothering to hug; Yang and Nebula spend far too much time together and anything more than a head nod would be ridiculous. Nebula eyes Blake’s outfit appreciatively as they sit down; her black, long-sleeved, collared shirt is entirely sheer, bra tastefully visible underneath, tucked into high-waisted denim shorts, black tights disappearing into her ankle boots. 

“Who’s playing?” Yang asks, who’d half-assed her own look with black ripped jeans and a loose grey shirt. That’s the nice thing about a lounge - she doesn’t have dress up. 

“No idea,” Nebula says, giving a nod to the host on a thousand-dollar bottle of Dom Perignon _._ “A few different artists are in the lineup, I think.” 

“Oh, fresh faces,” Yang says, breezily goes for the jab; she takes every opportunity she can get. Blake picks up on the tone immediately, one eyebrow quirking to a point. “Love it. I’m all about supporting the up-and-coming.” 

“Is that what you’re doing with me?” she deadpans dryly. “Advancing my career?” 

“Well I wasn’t gonna _tell_ you that until your album dropped,” Yang says, sarcastically sighs after. “Way to ruin the surprise.” 

Blake grins, adjusting her hair over her collar, and the look she levels Yang with next is enough to suck the breath out of the entire room. “Babe,” she says, “I think we both know who got the better end of the deal here _._ ” 

“In case that wasn’t clear,” Nebula chimes in, Dew laughing beside her, “that’s _you,_ Yang.” 

“As you so helpfully love to remind me,” Yang says, and she’s smiling. It’s said as a joke, but that doesn’t make it any less honest.

\--

The benefits outweigh the risks, that’s what Blake decides throughout the night - Yang with an arm around her, kissing her when she wants without resorting to longing looks, smiles that aren’t soaked in secrecy - she can’t believe she’d _lived_ before this, can’t believe they managed six months darting behind walls, painting themselves shadow. Can’t believe they survived without love like water, drowning the room.

The music is good, is all Blake’ll say later. She’ll have shots, glasses of inordinately expensive wine. She won’t remember much - Yang’s laugh, Nebula’s dry insults, Dew catching her eye as if to say _oh, actors_. But the music is good.

\--

Those are paparazzi pictures Yang saves to her camera roll when they drop a day later. 

“You’re so weird.” Blake rolls her eyes, stretched out across the couch and watching a rerun of _Saturday Night Live_ with a bowl of fresh strawberries resting on her stomach.

“You look _hot,_ ” Yang says, spreading two fingers against her phone screen. “They must’ve photoshopped them, because compared to what I’m seeing now--”

“Shut up,” Blake laughs, and narrows her gaze playfully. “Are you _zooming in_ on my _ass_?” 

“Absolutely not,” Yang says, straight-faced, but they’ve been together long enough for Blake to know when she’s lying. There’s a sentiment to that she can’t quite put her finger on, only that it settles warmly in her chest and releases like sunlight.

\--

 **Colton Jones __** _@laxbro1745 ·_ Aug 29  
_@blakebelladonna_ You should be with a Man like you were before. What you are doing it wrong. Sex should be with a man and a woman

yang xiao long liked  
**Blake Belladonna** _@blakebelladonna_ · Aug 29  
_Replying to @laxbro1745_  
both at once? every time? sounds like a lot of work. best of luck to you on your threesome-only lifestyle.

 **winter came** _@game_ofhoes_ · Aug 29  
_Replying to @blakebelladonna @laxbro1745_  
LMAOOOO BRUH

 **chrissy** _@yangsabs_ · Aug 29  
_Replying to @blakebelladonna @laxbro1745_  
ok i was on the fence about her but this is gjfdkbsjfdkgjsdf

 **kate turning 21 __** _@coastedkate_ · Aug 29  
_Replying to @blakebelladonna @laxbro1745_  
blake belladonna im in love with you please snap me in half

\--

For the first time, Yang chalks it up to inexperience.

She and Nebula finally have their beautiful romantic climax - there’s a war won, there’s a self-discovery and a sacrifice and a saving - but in its entirety, it turns out to be much stranger than she thought it’d be, than it’s ever been before.

It’s not because the scenes are shot out of order - they almost always are - and thanks to scheduling, they wind up acting out their first meeting right before their love scene; that’s a familiar challenge, and one she’s encountered previously. No, what’s unnerving is that Yang’s never had to kiss someone with her mind so thoroughly occupied by someone else, knowing what all-encompassing love actually feels like, tastes like, how it folds and curves and shudders.

It’s almost unsettling - or it would be, if she weren’t so good at her job. Nebula’s objectively attractive, and they _do_ have chemistry, and their characters’ love story is something she wants to do justice to; but someone else’s lips on hers has never felt so _wrong,_ so out of place and inappropriate.

Not according to their director - Autumn gives them a wide grin and a thumbs up after calling _cut,_ but the minute they start setting up for their next take, Nebula lets her mouth fall. Background shifts around them; the green screen hangs wide behind, taking up the wall. 

Nebula says, “Dude, that was fucking weird. Way weirder than rehearsals.” 

Well, one of them had to say it. 

Yang snorts over a laugh. “I know. Was it everything you dreamed it would be?” 

“No,” Nebula says, grimacing. “It was much worse. Did you even brush your teeth?” 

“I had some gum.” 

“You’re such an asshole.”

The A.D. points out something on the screen, gestures to the two of them, and Autumn nods in agreement. Yang’s smile grows, a vision forming. “We’re about to get a note,” she says. Autumn slips her headphones off. “Wanna bet on it? Twenty?” 

“Tongue,” Nebula says immediately. 

“Hand placement,” Yang decides instead. 

A few hours later and Nebula’s slapping a twenty into Yang’s hand, grumbling in annoyance. They’d kissed so many times they’d actually grown desensitized to it, relaxed and comfortable, and it’d secretly been a blessing in disguise - their work almost certainly benefited from the ease in atmosphere, in expectation.

“I’m assuming you’ll take Blake to the premiere in, like, a year or whatever,” Nebula says. “I’m sure she’ll love it.” 

“She will,” Yang says, and fondly rolls her eyes. “She loves the book. She’ll be thrilled when we kiss.” 

She slams her trailer door, backpack over her shoulder. Nebula lets out a laugh, shaking her head at the revelation; her smile is soft, like she’s giving up on teasing. “Well, then,” she says, “I hope we make her proud.” 

“I hope we do, too,” Yang agrees, too quiet and genuine, and they walk off towards the gate as the night spreads open around them. Nebula lets her have it without a remark, and Yang finds herself hoping they make it to a sequel.

\--

The band sits in while the entire album plays for the execs, who listen diligently and make notes, sometimes comments if they feel strongly enough to interrupt the music for it. Ozpin himself attends the session - he’d done it for their first album, too, but Blake had always chalked that up to wanting to see the proof of purchase; they’d been a very high-risk, but ultimately high-reward pickup for the label. And apparently he’d wanted to do it again. 

They end up being fans of exactly the songs Fox and Sage say they’ll be - ‘Lighting the Fire’ _,_ ‘Uncovered’, and ‘Alone Together’ _-_ but they also see the merit in the album as a whole. Blake hides her grin behind her hand as they exchange glances over the track _Taking Control;_ she sneaks a look at Ozpin, and maybe she imagines it, but she swears the corners of his mouth quirk. For a brief, shining moment, it’s like an inside joke, the bare bones of a conversation that needs to be contextualized while she has the room.

The last track ends, and before anyone can speak, she meets Ozpin’s stare directly. “I never would’ve written this when you found me,” she says bluntly, hopes he understands what she’s truly trying to tell him: _thank you_. “I never would’ve written any of this.” 

She’s never been able to put it succinctly into words despite them being simple and small. Gratitude doesn’t say enough, that’s the problem. Those two words - they’re _so_ simple and small, they’ve become nothing close to the magnitude they need to fill.

“I’ve had dealings with White Fang in the past,” he’d said at the time, two years ago or just over. “Adam Taurus is the new CEO, is he not?” 

Her voice had matched her lips, cracking and on the verge of blood. “He is.” 

Sun had wanted to put his hand on her back, to hold her in his arms, to shield her from the worst - _I’m sorry, I don’t believe this will work, and I can’t take a risk with a chasm this wide_ \- but Ozpin had only regarded her for a moment, regarded all of them, and then pressed his spacebar, signaling _play_ on a song from their E.P.. It’d rolled out of his speakers, her own voice nearly unrecognizable. 

He’d let it play for ten, twenty, thirty seconds. “I don’t agree with his methods,” he’d said candidly. “But I can’t deny his ear for talent, and Menagerie, you _do_ indeed have it.” 

It’d felt like a fever dream, induced by heat and lack of sleep. It’d felt like a rope being thrown down to the bottom of a well. It’d felt like hope, and she hadn’t had that for a long, long time.

Now, he holds her stare with the same respect she’s offered him, and his smile, no matter how small, is most definitely real.

“I won’t deny it’s quite a departure, Miss Belladonna,” he says, “but it’s a delightfully provocative one, and I think the recent audience you’ve gained will _certainly_ appreciate it.”

\--

“How’d it go?” Yang whispers into the phone, and there’s no way she’s supposed to be taking calls on set. Blake pictures her holed up in a corner, probably near craft services, surreptitiously talking into a water bottle. “I’ve been thinking about you all day. I mean, I normally do, but this is a big deal, right?” 

“I was _trying_ to leave you a voicemail, Yang,” Blake says, but the smile’s evident in her voice. “Aren’t you going to get in trouble?” 

“No,” Yang says, wavering on confidence. “Um, probably not. It’s - look, I have like, five minutes, so talk fast.” 

The laughter bubbles up her throat instead, and then something unfamiliar: sharpness in the corners of her eyes, and a sting, the blurring of vision. Nothing falls, but it’s there, and that’s evidence enough. 

“I’ve never had so many good things in my life at once,” she says, and she swears she’s breaking apart, finally rearranging herself into the person she’d always meant to become.

\--

They loved it, she tells Yang. Now the there’s a lot left to the in-house publicist, who’ll devise a schedule for release dates, as well as send out advanced copies of the album itself to blogs, magazines, publications. 

She’s standing on the sidewalk, down the street from the record label, outside of a Starbucks. She’d left the building and needed to walk - Ilia had uncharacteristically wrapped her in a hug, said _I’m so proud of you, and you’re so far from where you’ve been; we all are_ \- and it’d unlocked something inside of her, a deep recess of a darker time she’d carefully kept compartmentalized. Three years ago, Ilia coming to the door of the apartment she’d shared with Adam and being turned away. Believing Blake’s poor excuses for her bruises, almost as if she hadn’t wanted to know. Until suddenly she’d stopped; stopped believing and started fighting. 

_You don’t deserve this, Blake,_ is what Ilia had whispered then, and Blake had known exactly what she’d meant.

 _I love you,_ Blake remembers telling her. _I’m sorry it isn’t the way you want me to. I’m sorry it couldn’t have been you._

 _Yeah,_ Ilia had whispered, tears in her eyes. _Yeah, me too._

“Blake?” Yang’s voice says. “Blake? Hello?” 

“Sorry,” Blake says. “I was - I spaced out.” 

“Oh, no,” Yang says dramatically. “It’s finally happened. Your head’s so big you’re floating away.”

“You’re a moron,” Blake says, but she’s still smiling. “No, I just - I was just thinking, you know, how far we’ve come. Not just me. Everyone. Ilia, Sun, Neptune - I - they fought hard for me. And I owe this to them, just as much as I do you.” 

The tone Yang comes back with is almost unbearably gentle, understanding. “You’re going to write a song for them, aren’t you?” 

“Yeah,” Blake says, and the words unravel themselves like ribbons in her head. “I am.” 

“I think that’ll be--” There’s a rustling on the other end, and a loud voice, yelling in the background; Yang curses under her breath, lets out a string of a sentence without so much as a pause. “ _Loveyoufucksorrygottogobye._ ”

The call beeps. Blake can only laugh; the sun’s out, the weather eighty and perfect from where she’s standing on the sidewalk, underneath a tree. She’s never seen such a gorgeous shade of blue drenching the sky. Los Angeles - it used to be so far from home, and now it’s the only one she thinks of. 

She decides today’s a beautiful day to walk into Starbucks and use her own name. 

\--

Weiss stops Sun from following Blake as she walks off down the street, phone in her hand and tapping away before bringing it to her ear. He glances oddly at her, allowing himself to be held back. 

He waits. She chews on her tongue, saying nothing.

“Uh, Weiss,” he finally broaches, “I’m, like, flattered or whatever, but you aren’t really my type.” 

She blinks. Slow to comprehend, but quicker to react, and she smacks him upside the head, frown burrowing into her face out of sheer disgust. “I’m trying to figure out how to tell you something _important,_ ” she hisses, tips of her ears red in anger. “And it isn’t about _my_ feelings.” 

“Who - Blake?” he puts together, lowering his voice. “What about her?” 

She returns to her habits for a moment and anxiety gnaws in the pit of his stomach, like a creature with teeth catching against his insides. She’s troubled, that’s what he starts to understand. Whatever it is, something has seriously fucked with her head, and now she’s dumping it on him. 

Finally, she releases her bottom lip, red and vibrant against the contrast of her hair. An inhale, and then: “Adam knows, Sun, and he isn’t happy.” 

_Adam._ It’s enough for flashbacks, even without being the one to live bearing the brunt of his anger. Blake, purpling under her eyes like bruises, so thin he spent months terrified he’d touch her and she’d snap clean in half. Blake, turning away without answers to any of his questions, unable to smile like she couldn’t remember how. Blake, crossing her arms over her body like holding her bones together. “What?” he whispers, staring blankly at her. 

“I still have a few friends over at his label,” she says, and she’s speaking fast. “I - they told me he - he holed himself up in his office when the news broke. Cancelled meetings, wouldn’t see clients. And in the days following, he’s just - he’s been _angry._ ” 

“Is he,” Sun starts, swallows, dry and sharp in his throat, “a threat? Do we - do we need to _do_ something?” 

“We can’t.” Weiss is as matter-of-fact as she’s always been, in spite of her obviously distress. “You know there’s nothing we can do. But we just - we need to be aware. I don’t know how to tell her. I don’t know if I should.” 

“Don’t.” The firm, steady tone is surprising, and she stops to listen. “She’s - Weiss, _look_ at her. She’s _happy._ Finally. It’s been so long since we’ve seen her like this - like herself. If we tell her about Adam, I mean - what _good_ is it gonna do? She knows what he’s like. She _knows_.” 

Her lip slips back into her mouth, a sign his words have made an impact. It’s another moment of silence, before--“Alright.” 

“Alright?” 

“Fine.” She drops her arms to her sides, fists to steel. “You’re right - it’s probably best we don’t send her spiraling into panic. But I’m increasing security for any upcoming public appearances.” 

“Good,” Sun says, following Blake’s trek down the street with a solemn, intense stare. “Whatever it takes, Weiss.” 

It’s one of the few things they agree on. One of the few things they always have.

\--

Early September forces a conversation Yang’s been both elated for and dreading. Being out is one thing; going out is another thing entirely. She broaches the topic after Glynda texts, asking details for her guests; it’s the Emmys. They’re not letting anyone just wander in. 

“So,” she says, when they’re tucked together in bed after a long day of filming, recording. Blake rests her book flat across her stomach, recognizing significance when she hears it. “The Emmys are coming up.”

Her mouth quirks. “They are,” she agrees. 

“Um,” Yang says. 

“What is this, an invitation to the fucking prom?” Blake says, mildly rolls her eyes. She fingers the page of her book, picks it back up. “Jesus, Yang. Yes, I’ll go to the Emmys with you.” 

“There’ll be a lot of cameras,” Yang warns, just to be sure. She raises a single finger as she does so. “And, you know, interviewers. They’ll probably try to talk to you.” 

“ _Cameras?_ ” Blake repeats, and she sounds absolutely scandalized. “At the _Emmy Awards?_ Oh, fuck. I didn’t see that coming. You’re right - I shouldn’t go.” She doesn’t even glance up from her book.

“Great,” Yang says, beaming, taking the brutal evisceration as the acceptance it is. “I love you.” 

It’s the declaration that shifts her walls, dampens her wit, her sarcasm - she flits her eyes to Yang’s over the cover, lips curled quietly at the corners. “I love you, too,” she says, and returns to her words. Sometimes it’s all that needs to be said: just the two of them knowing that love is there. 

For a moment, they’re content with silence; and then Blake adds, “As if I’d let you go to the Emmys looking drop-dead gorgeous without me. You’d get hit on all night. I’m doing you a favor.”

“Hm,” Yang replies nonchalantly, keeps her face straight and her lips reading wicked. “I’m sure there’s some way I can repay you.” 

“I’m sure there is,” Blake says, just as inconsequential. 

(Yang slips a hand up her thigh, finds her warm and wet; Blake makes a slight noise of surprise in her throat, and Yang readjusts, covers Blake’s mouth with her other hand.

“Shh,” she says quietly, cruelly. “We aren’t alone in this house anymore, Belladonna, so you’d better save your voice.”)

\--

Considering it’s their red carpet debut, Blake can’t get away with styling herself; Yang’s team is _generously_ (hint: forcefully) thrust upon her, and she’s finally left at Coco’s mercy, who couldn’t be more thrilled with the circumstance. Ruby peaks her head in and laughs - she and Weiss get to skip the royal treatment, and they aren’t jealous in the slightest. 

“You aren’t technically supposed to be interviewed, Blake,” Coco says, who’s been in the industry long enough to know all of its rules. “I’m sure Yang’s told you that already, but just in case - you’re wearing Dior _._ Yang, you’re in Vera Wang _._ Memorize it.” 

“Done. Calvin Klein.”

“Tom Ford.” 

Coco puts her face in her hands. “Two of you,” she says flatly. “One was bad enough. Now there’s _two_ of you thinking you’re funny.” 

“Excuse you,” Yang says, affronted, but holds carefully still as Velvet meticulously curls her hair. “We’re hysterical. I’m waiting for Netflix to call about a comedy special.” 

“You’ll be waiting a long time,” Scarlet says, working on Blake’s foundation. “Sweetheart, you’ve got incredible skin.” 

“I suppose I can live with that,” Blake sighs. “No stand-up, but great skin.” 

“That’s the spirit,” he encourages. 

“I’m in hell,” Coco says dramatically. “This is what literal, actual hell is like. Yang, you’re gonna get asked about your dress and stupidly reply, ‘ _Blake Belladonna._ ’” 

“Oh, now _that’s_ comedy,” Blake says. “Good one, Coco.” 

“I love all of you to death,” Velvet interrupts, noticing the telltale shift of Yang’s jaw, “but Yang, if you open your mouth one more time, I’m going to burn your ear off. Please. Blake won’t love you if you’re asymmetrical like that.”

“It’s true,” Blake agrees. “I’m only with you for your pretty face.” 

“What about my talent?” Yang asks, violating the exact rule she’d just been given. 

“Your _what_?” 

“I have an Oscar on my mantle,” she says. “I have two Golden Globes.” 

“Lips together,” Scarlet says without leaving room for an answer, picking up the lip liner and throwing Velvet a wink over his shoulder. She smiles in response, and Yang’s curls fall perfectly over her shoulder, exactly the way they’re meant to.

\--

This time, they’re _both_ receiving the red carpet walkthrough - Blake’ll go with her to the photo pit, Glynda explains, and then step back, allow Yang her own moment for her nomination. She pauses as she finishes, before adding reluctantly, “It’s likely they’ll want individuals of you, too, Blake.” 

“Okay,” she says, sounding far more confident than she feels; Yang takes her hand, subtly links their fingers together. Yang’s always been the one to see straight through her. “I’ll be fine.” 

“I know,” Yang says. “I’m nervous for me.” 

“You?” Blake asks, disbelief coating every letter. “Babe, you look - you look--”

 _Otherworldly,_ is all she can think to say, and even that’s not right: the dress she’s wearing is off-white and made of a flowing, airy material, a train skirt that cuts open at the front of the waist and reveals the shorter slip underneath, hanging just about mid-thigh. Beadwork covers the sides of the bodice, and there’s a deep dip down her chest, cleavage visible but tasteful. Her hair spirals in perfect, beautiful waves, and she’s--

“Hot?” Yang provides helpfully. “Stunning? Gorgeous? The most outrageously sexy woman you’ve ever seen in your life?” 

“Well,” Blake says, “all four, until you opened your mouth.” 

Yang throws back her head and laughs, and somewhere cameras are already snapping. Blake hopes they capture this precise, exact moment; the awe probably still fading from Blake’s face and the love present on Yang’s, the light, the brilliance. 

She squeezes Blake’s hand. “Funny,” she says, shining too brightly to be mistaken as anything other than the star she is. “I feel the same way about you.”

\--

It’s pandemonium. Glynda’s speech doesn’t prepare her for that. 

The minute they reach the pit, their names are called with such a heightened tone of desperation that after a solid minute of it - _YangBlakeYangBlakeYangYangBlake -_ they cease to mean anything at all. But her arm around Yang’s waist and Yang’s fingers comfortable on her hip keep the both of them grounded, together. They smile blindingly, looking just as in love as every magazine is going to make them out to be, and not nearly enough for the truth of it.

In the middle of the chaos - _Overhereplease,YangoverhereBlakeoverhere_ \- Yang glances to her, smile losing teeth, becoming soft and intimate. Her lips press together, a delicate curl up at the corners; Blake can’t help but mirror it, pressure fading from her cheeks and tenderness taking over. Yang’s eyes never stray from hers despite the trail they’d taken earlier that afternoon, cataloguing every inch of Blake’s body in her dress - black, long-sleeved, sheer fabric covering the length of her sternum and allowing a glimpse of the curve of her breasts; Yang’s stare had dropped with her jaw - but now she’s past that. They both are. 

Now she gazes into Yang’s eyes, and despite her enduring allure, her natural elegance, all Blake can really think about is--

Yang moves first, leans in and puts her lips to Blake’s ear. “I wish we were at home in sweatpants, watching true crime documentaries,” she says, swiping the image directly from Blake’s mind.

Her smile is so brazenly authentic that there isn’t a soul who’ll see these pictures later and doubt that _love_ exists; this is a bold validation, a statement in itself. So Blake tells her, “I’m in love with you.” 

Another laugh, and then a pull inward; their moment is closing as they’re running out of time. With the line of her mouth so gentle it could be classified as a vulnerability, she says, “I was fine before I met you, but damn, if it isn’t better with you here.” 

\--

As designated, Blake hangs back in the crowd with Weiss and Ruby while Yang gives interviews, but that doesn’t stop her from having an impact. 

_Everyone_ has a comment to make, whether it’s a question or a joke or a casual statement - several simply want to know what it’s like, walking the carpet with a partner for the first time; many just congratulate her, because Blake’s _gorgeous_ and _talented_ and _successful_ and of course that’s what matters to these people - but only one gets a legitimate response, purely because the inquiry itself is so insanely ridiculous that she can’t hold back.

“Was it a strange thing for _her_ to get used to?” the interviewer asks - he’s a man, that’s the first mistake, probably thinks he’s being flattering rather than creepy - “I mean, _everybody_ wants you. Was she ever worried about that, especially when you had to keep it a secret?”

She feels her brain knocking itself out in protest as it attempts to comprehend what’s being asked of her. It’s like he’s just dropped a coded message during a war, expects her to decipher it in the blink of an eye. Worried. Worried--

“Are you _kidding_?” she responds, almost as a demand. She glances at Blake over her shoulder, her eyes widening comically; Blake’s standing with her clutch in her hand, effortlessly beautiful - she doesn’t realize it, but half the people who walk by keep slowing down to stare. “Have you _seen_ her? She, like, owns me.” 

Glynda’s hand wraps around her elbow, signaling _time’s up;_ she thanks the interviewer and prepares to move down the line, still snickering quietly to herself. Glynda’s apparently waiting for someone in particular, though; she gestures Blake to follow, guides them behind _E!_ _News_ to wait their turn.

“What’s so funny?” Blake asks. 

“That last guy,” Yang says. “He was like - ‘was Blake ever worried about you cheating on her?’ but in a subtler way--” Blake’s already laughing “--I know, it was so fucking stupid. I was like, have you looked at her?” She tosses Blake a furtive glance, trails her body from her eyes to her heels, lowers her voice with the risk. “Of course, the image _I_ had in mind was of you a little less dressed than you are currently, but--” 

“Shut up.” Blake’s grin is too wide to match the remark. “You don’t have to finish that thought. I’m pretty sure I know where it was headed.” 

“I’ll show you later.” 

Glynda’s gesturing Yang forward again, purposefully ignoring the flirtatious things they’re murmuring to each other. Blake nods her on, slant of her mouth now losing its innocence. “I’ll look forward to it,” she says, and Yang swears she sees straight through Blake’s dress, through her skin and muscle, down into her bones.

\--

It’s Weiss’s suspicious behavior that finally breaks through Blake’s sensory overload, gives her something to focus on with an answer: she keeps taking these long _looks_ down the carpet, searching every face in the crowd, the color of every woman’s hair. She’s strangely on edge, shifting her weight between feet more often than normal, pulling her hand-mirror out of her clutch and examining her lipstick. She looks flawless - she always does; Weiss doesn’t leave the house with a hair out of place on a regular day, and the Emmys create a vision of her straight out of a magazine - and Blake can’t quite figure out where the nerves are coming from, what the anxious influence on her habits is, until: 

“Pyrrha!” Ruby exclaims, glancing past Blake’s head and beaming. 

The way Weiss turns is deliberately graceful, paced - she locks eyes with Blake as she does so, her faint blush standing out against her fair skin, lips snapped together as if she’s afraid of what might fall out between them - and then she moves on, shifts into a polite smile. But it’s too late. Blake’s seen enough. 

“Hello again,” Pyrrha greets sincerely, smiling as she pulls Ruby into a hug first, followed by Blake, and finally, Weiss; it’s impossible to refuse without giving it a connotation of _difference._ Weiss still has to stand on her toes to reach Pyrrha’s shoulder, but both of Pyrrha’s arms wrap around her neck before pulling away. Blake watches her fingers ghost the line of Weiss’s shoulder blade, the trail of goosebumps that follows. 

It’s incredibly, unbelievably awkward in its intimacy, especially when said _intimacy_ shouldn’t even be there to begin with.

Blake’s seen Pyrrha’s movies, knows how incredible of an actress she is - but what she apparently can’t act off is the state of confusion touching Weiss always seems to leave her in. It’s so achingly familiar it’s like Blake’s seeing herself six months ago, staring at Yang in the doorway of her dressing room. 

“Where’s Jaune?” Ruby asks, either willfully ignorant or gracefully sidestepping. “You came together, right?”

“Yes,” Pyrrha says, doesn’t look at Weiss as she does so. “He’s at the start of the line with his publicist.” 

“Yang’s almost done,” Ruby provides helpfully, since Blake doesn’t actually know how to tell yet. “She’ll be glad to see you. You _know_ how much she hates award shows.” 

It’s the opening Pyrrha’s waiting for; they need to overcome the odd tension still lingering in the air, the elephant in the room far too big to ignore that they’re attempting to ignore anyway. She turns on Blake, smile teasing. “Oh, I bet she’s enjoying this one,” she says, raises an eyebrow knowingly. “You’re here. How was the pit?” 

“Hell,” Blake says, but she’s smiling, too. 

-

Yang finally rejoins them ten minutes later, stepping up to Blake’s side, and it’s times like this when her talent becomes most obvious, truly deserves its nominations - she doesn’t even blink at the ticking bomb between Weiss and Pyrrha, every passing second like the countdown to an explosion. They can’t avoid it forever. They can barely avoid it for a night.

But it’s lighter with Yang there, easier; a few other friends of theirs pass by and greet them, co-stars and familiar faces - Pyrrha and Yang are forced to play nice with Cinder for a solid thirty seconds until she deliberately ignores Blake’s introduction, an act that Yang considers a cardinal sin, and they close their talk on her rather abruptly - and then they part ways, leaving Pyrrha to wait for Jaune as they head inside.

What follows is so Hollywood of a moment, Blake finds it hard to believe it isn’t choreographed - Weiss shoots a short, poignant look over her shoulder, and even in the chaos of the crowd, Blake knows she catches Pyrrha’s eye like she’s the centerpoint of the carpet itself.

She faces forward again, her spine straight, chin up. It’s been a long time. She’s used to not getting what she wants.

Ruby and Weiss are sitting further back in the theatre among other guests, friends, and family; Blake and Yang are sitting somewhat closer to the front, a few seats away from the aisle. The stage is drenched in various shades of gold, what looks like beaded curtains hanging floor-to-ceiling on both sides, glimmering underneath the lights; large half-spherical shapes stretch behind, creating a type of archway. It’s ostentatious in its grandeur, glamorous, glittering. Being a recent Oscar and Golden Globe winner apparently makes Yang a target, a worthy possibility for the category she’s nominated in.

“But It won’t be me,” she whispers confidently, something Blake merely rolls her eyes at. For someone so valued in her field, she never seems to give her worth a consistency. “Seriously! It’s a big show, but Maria Calavera is almost definitely gonna get it for _Reaper._ She was incredible.” 

“ _You’re_ incredible, too,” Blake says, because in her opinion, Yang’s the last person who should sell herself short, and she doesn’t mind convincing her of that. Objectively, she’s accomplished more by twenty-five than most people have in a lifetime.

“ _You’re_ biased,” Yang replies, softening anyway. The row behind them starts to fill out, and she leans closer as to not be overheard. “Honestly, babe - I don’t care if I win. Tonight’s already perfect. You’re here.” 

The lights dim in warning - they’ll be live soon, airing across the country; they’ll be panned to in the audience, their reactions on full display at the whim of the production crew. They’ll be photos and YouTube videos and gifs. They’ll be everywhere. 

“Thanks,” Yang says suddenly, moments before the show starts; sometimes it’s like they share a wavelength, a radio frequency where their thoughts spill and overlap. “Thanks for coming, I mean. I know it’s overwhelming.”

“Nah,” Blake says, and takes her hand, squeezing once; Yang intertwines their fingers, doesn’t let her pull away, not that she would’ve tried. “I’m with you. I can handle anything.” 

\--

The two of them actually get a reference in the opening monologue - _Our newest It-Couple is here,_ the woman says; _Yang Xiao Long and her girlfriend Blake Belladonna are in attendance tonight, an appearance Hollywood is no doubt heralding as a bold and political statement, but something I personally call being gay and smarter than ninety percent of the people here -_ which they don’t see coming, and fortunately their laughter is genuine in response; Hollywood’s all about their diversity angle these days. Well, they’ll play their parts. At least it hadn’t been offensive.

But it’s a long night. A long, long night. 

During the breaks, plenty of people approach them - congratulating Yang on various performances, catching up after multiple projects apart, or simply saying hello - she isn’t completely out of her league here, surrounded by plenty of movie stars who’d opted for roles on prestigious television shows for a few seasons. It’s kind of becoming the thing to do, she explains lowly to Blake; it’s the _Golden Age_ of television or whatever. 

And it’s also the reason Yang expects to lose her category, which she does - Maria Calavera, an older legend in the industry who’d made a triumphant return after a long absence, takes it to thunderous applause. Yang actually whistles, genuinely thrilled for her; they’d worked on a film together years ago, and though they’d originally butted heads, she’d helped put Yang in her place, make her see perspective. It was a moment of true growth, and she’d always attributed some of her continuous level head to Maria’s advice then. 

“I’d thank my fellow nominees, but you’ll probably see them again next year, and the year after that, and the year after that,” she drawls, full of high-pitched, teasing lilts. “So I won’t! They’ll be back. I might kick it right here, and this award will be my final legacy!” She cackles madly.

“She’s kind of nuts,” Yang whispers, but with a fond tone. “I love her to death. No pun intended.” 

Her speech concludes, and she almost walks off stage in the wrong direction. Everyone claps politely and laughs. Blake leans in and says, “The next time you’re here, you’re going to win. And I’m going to be sitting next to you, telling you ‘I told you so.’” 

Yang presses a single kiss to her mouth, brief but soft. “I look forward to it.” 

\--

The two of them skip the afterparties; Pyrrha and Jaune, who’d also lost his category and, like Yang, hadn’t been surprised by it, take Ruby and Weiss to the Netflix one. Yang isn’t sure if it’s because Ruby actually wants to go, or because she wants to give them some time alone. Either way, she’s grateful for it, because--

Blake slips into the car, the slit of her dress exposing her leg to her upper thigh, bare and inviting and the perfect place for Yang to put her mouth, suck until she leaves a mark. She thinks of traveling further up, thinks of finding her lingerie, thinks of cupping her warmth underneath it. 

“Don’t even think about it,” Blake says, staring out the window as they pull away, her lips crooked at a corner.

“I’m thinking about it,” Yang says. 

“You’re always thinking about it.” 

“So are you,” she retaliates, rests her hand on Blake’s thigh. Blake, to her credit - far too used to Yang’s games, and far too good at playing directly into them - only smirks wider, lets it overtake teeth. “Nice try, Belladonna, but I know you spent half the show thinking about being underneath me.” 

She shifts away from the window, tilts her neck, hair falling over her shoulder. It’s hard to separate her from the lights beyond the tinted window, something gleaming out of darkness. “When we get home,” she says, and _home_ has been Yang’s house for months now, “I want you to fuck me like you’d won.” 

“I did win,” Yang says, catches Blake’s chin in her hand and kissing her. “I’m going home with you.”

\--

Strangely (or not-so-strangely, but Weiss is too sober too early to pretend she knows any better), Pyrrha disappears after half an hour, wanders her way into an empty corner of the garden. Jaune’s too busy with his friends and co-stars to really notice - they’ve been together for awhile, anyway, and they’ve lost the need to constantly keep track of one another. That’s the comfort of familiarity, he jokes. You just stop wondering where they’ve gone. 

He’s wrong. Anyone who’s ever been in love is aware of it. Weiss isn’t sure if she’s ever been in love, but she knows he’s wrong regardless.

She hasn’t stopped wondering, that’s the thing. It’s an instinct of hers; _to know._ She touches one hand to Ruby’s shoulder, mojito held in her other. “Hey,” she says quietly. “I’ll be right back.” 

Ruby sets her mouth, lines hard but understanding. “Okay,” she says. Troubled. She should be. “Um - just - be careful.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Weiss answers, lying like it’s a right of hers, a title passed through bloodlines and birth. “I’d just like a little air.” 

“Okay.” Ruby chews on her bottom lip, but ultimately keeps her warnings to herself. She’s thinking them so loudly it’s like she’s said them anyway.

Part of the garden reads as an art exhibit; it’s a large oak tree from which various intricately crafted birdhouses hang, ranging from steampunk to modern, from one that looks woven out of grass to another that appears to be made entirely of diamond. It’s where she finds Pyrrha, staring at each piece in turn for long periods of time before moving to the next, like she’s recreating their carvings in her brain. Maybe it’s how she commits things to memory: lets them hurt her first.

“Hello,” Weiss says softly, careful of startling her. 

Her pause is miniscule, and she doesn’t even turn. It confirms more than it rejects. “Hi, Weiss.” 

“Why are you out here?” she asks bluntly, and that’s the alcohol speaking. She’d meant to be patient and calm and cool; she’d meant to be someone worthy of the truth, not someone who demands it like she does to everybody else. “I’m sorry. You don’t have to answer that.” 

Pyrrha’s mouth trips up, like taking a wrong turn. “It’s okay,” she says, tone so gentle Weiss thinks it could pass as one of the homes dangling around them. “I don’t mind telling you.” 

But she doesn’t say anything further, just waits. One of the houses must have a windchime; a bell rings from higher above, blowing with the breeze expected of a warm September night. It’s empty where they are, leaves them alone to the fairy lights and ambiance. Pyrrha still hasn’t looked at her, attention held to the sharp edges of sheet metal meant to make up a room, tracing a thumb over a ridge.

And Weiss understands. She always understands, even when she doesn’t want to. “That’s the problem, isn’t it?” she says, and the indifference has only ever been an accessory, something to put on and wear. “You don’t mind telling me.” 

Finally, faced with the confrontation, she turns around, lets her arm fall loosely by her side. Weiss wonders if that’s something she’s learned, or something she’s managed to maintain - tenderness in the face of fear. She’s fully smiling as she meets Weiss’s eyes, but it’s bittersweet, almost resentful. “Yes,” she says. “That’s the problem.” 

“You don’t love him.” 

“I don’t know what I feel.” 

“You don’t have to lie to me,” Weiss says quietly, takes a step closer. It’s all defeated, though, like they both know exactly where this is going and they’re determined to hurt themselves with it anyway. 

Pyrrha doesn’t get angry with her for the remark, not that Weiss had predicted she would - she’s only pained, body tensionless and regretful. “I don’t think I know what love is,” she says, wistful as if secret. “I thought I did, but now, I - I’m not so sure.” 

Another pause; Weiss moves past her to stand beside her, posture not to fight but to explain. She gazes aimlessly up the pieces in the tree, wonders if any of them feel lived-in, wonders if people can feel that way, too. “I think you’d know.” 

“Yeah,” Pyrrha murmurs. “Yeah, I was afraid of that answer.” 

“You aren’t with him anymore, are you.” 

It isn’t a question, but it’s still expecting. “No,” she says, blinking tears out of her eyes that aren’t there. “I’m not, but we - didn’t want it to impact his night.” 

“I’m sorry,” Weiss says, rests a hand against her shoulder, fingers spreading open. “I...know what it’s like. To let yourself down.” 

Pyrrha’s head tilts, eyelashes sinking low, stare darting to Weiss’s hand. Weiss can feel her breath against her knuckles, can see the outline of her lips - and suddenly they’re a possibility, they’re a path, they’re the particles of the universe splitting into a world in which Weiss kisses her, links their fingers, whispers foolish romantic nonsense about destiny - her red hair’s in a high ponytail, swings long and curls over her spine, matches the shade of her dress - Weiss loosens her fingers, trails her hand up, cups Pyrrha’s cheek--

It doesn’t even cross Pyrrha’s mind to stop her, and that, in itself, is _knowing_.

She dips her head, captures Weiss’s mouth with her own, just to feel what it’s like. Just to feel anything at all. 

Weiss swears it’s an eternity, swears it’s a second until Pyrrha pulls away, and then Weiss drags her back in like the tide to the moon, submerged in silver - she parts her lips, catches Pyrrha’s bottom one between them, sucks gently - Pyrrha’s arms loop around her waist, clutch her desperate and close for the few moments they’re allowed to intertwine before that splinter universe cracks off and dismantles, leaves them nowhere and alone. 

They’re both a little drunk, a little unsteady. But it still feels right, and that’s the worst part.

“I’m sorry,” Pyrrha says, breaking them apart, but her breath against Weiss’s mouth is a kiss unto itself. “I can’t. I can’t. Not now.” 

“You don’t have to apologize,” Weiss says, sinking back onto her feet. She keeps her eyelids shut, lets the details burrow so hard they hurt. “I know.” 

But she thumbs Pyrrha’s bottom lip after, brushes it with the affection of something melancholically sentimental, and tries to pinpoint where she learned to be so gentle, where her instincts changed from rebellion to acceptance. 

And then she thinks of Blake, thinks of her smile flourishing under sunlight, thinks of her voice and its endurance, thinks of her strength and her forgiveness and her growth. And she thinks of Yang, thinks of her hands and how she uses them as hospitals, thinks of her love and its transparency, thinks of her reckless, relentless appreciation for life. 

And she thinks of Ruby. Thinks of her kindness, her sincerity, her authenticity. How she loved Weiss in every way possible other than the one she needed, and it still, somehow, was enough.

She knows exactly where she learned it. And she knows things don’t have to hurt to be remembered.

\--

The house is monstrously dark and dangerously inviting, full of flat, even surfaces. Yang doesn’t need to hear her say it to read her mind - she’s thinking in angles, getting bent over and wrecked. She’s hot beneath her dress, eager with her hands. But that’s a different line, one Yang isn’t planning on following. 

“Take off your underwear and nothing else,” she instructs quietly upon reaching their bedroom. “Go lie down. On your back.” 

It’s not the night to disobey, not the mood for power play - Blake desperately wants whatever Yang is planning on giving her, wants to be writhing and wet, wants to be fucked and full - she waits, watches Yang tug her lingerie down her legs, watches her buckle the harness instead--

Yang slips her hands underneath Blake’s thighs, drags her to the edge of the bed, and that’s as fast as it gets; she takes her time hiking Blake’s dress up her legs, fingers following the slit of it like an exploration, every inch of skin revealed like the hunt for treasure marked on a map. Blake only watches, arms resting by her head, hair spread out behind her, pulse quickening with her breath.

Yang slowly curls her fingers around the skirt of her own dress, pulls it up; neither of them speak, just staring at each other, but she can see the rhythm of Blake’s heartbeat in her chest, how her fingers half-twitch into a fist. Yang doesn’t stop there, lifts over the dildo and harness, lets Blake see the reward and the resolution; she feels her cunt clench around nothing, desperate for it inside of her, and Yang dips a hand to her clit, rubs her fingers down, gets them drenched in a matter of seconds. 

“Baby,” she murmurs, eyes trained on Blake’s cunt. “You’re soaking.” 

“I know,” Blake exhales unsteadily, stomach taut and body trembling. “Fuck me. Please.” 

Her fingers grip Blake’s thighs, holding her legs in place; they lock around her waist, and Blake’s spine curves off the mattress as Yang pumps into her, drives deep and slow; Blake’s neck arches with the rest of her, throat exposed and unable to swallow breath, hands grasping at nothing. All she can think is that there’s something torturously dirty about it - Yang’s dress pulled above the harness, thrusting into her, both of them still in their heels - and it leaves her thoughtless, speechless, sightless. She almost can’t look, the eye contact more intense than the way Yang’s fucking her, and Yang averts her gaze as if following along - she drops to watch the dildo sinking into Blake’s cunt, inch by inch and agonizing, easing gradually out before the repetition of it all. 

_Yang,_ she thinks of begging, but it’s too heavy to speak, and Blake’s somehow building anyway - “Yang,” she lets drop from her lips, repeats it like a hymn, like a chorus, “Yang, fuck, _Yang,_ ” - 

Yang’s fingers wrap around her wrists, pinning them to the mattress, and recklessness replaces the measurement, the deliberacy. Blake’s body trembles, spasms with every thrust. “I love you,” Yang murmurs against her ear, bending over her and enveloping her in gold, hair like a curtain, dress glittering in the moonlight dripping through the window; “I love you,” Yang murmurs, taking effort to be gentle with her words when what she’s doing to Blake isn’t.

“I love you,” Yang murmurs, cracking through a pant, a sentiment Blake can’t return until a long time after she’s come down, when she finally finds her voice again.

\--

It’s as successful a debut as it possibly could’ve been, they learn the next day; not only did they look great together, but they looked great _separately,_ and that’s the most important thing to the media. Even against Yang, Blake holds her own, a hand on her hip and her dark lips full without a pout. Every individual photo of her is black magic. Not a single soul can glance at her pictures and question her right to be there, be there with Yang.

And they don’t. They find other ways to challenge her.

Yang’s only on social media to post a designated partnership photo, thank her sponsors from the night previously, when it pops up in her notifications. She has them all muted, but recently she’s found it enjoyable to see what her fans are saying about her girlfriend. Normally it’s a lot of keysmashing and requests that _sound_ violent on the surface, but are almost definitely meant to signify sexual frustration - like _please rearrange my intestines_ or _rip all of my bones out of my body._ But this one’s a little different, and so easily targetable. 

“Some dumbass on Twitter thinks we have an unhealthy relationship because I said you own me in that interview,” Yang tells her, propped up with an elbow on her pillow. “What d’you think - engage?” 

“Link me,” Blake says, opening her own app. She’s still stretched out naked underneath the sheets, eyeliner smudged in a line beneath her eyes and hair mussed. 

**Nick __** _@Blackjacked28 ·_ 1h  
.@blakebelladonna @yangxiaolong You have an unhealthy relationship. Nobody should ‘own” anyone. 

**Blake Belladonna __** _@blakebelladonna ·_ 5m  
_Replying to @Blackjacked28 @yangxiaolong_  
finally someone gets it...we’re parasitic. she leeches me for music

 **yang xiao long __** _@yangxiaolong ·_ 4m  
_Replying to @blakebelladonna @Blackjacked28_  
excuse me do i not give you free publicity? i mean i took you to the emmys. this is mutualism baby

 **Blake Belladonna __** _@blakebelladonna ·_ 4m  
_Replying to @yangxiaolong @Blackjacked28_  
it’s so hot when you talk about science to me. biology 101 from your freshman year at NYU is finally paying off

 **yang xiao long __** _@yangxiaolong ·_ 2m  
_Replying to @blakebelladonna @Blackjacked28_  
we’re like the oxpecker and the rhinoceros...the bee and the flower...want me to read you this wikipedia article? i know you can’t read

 **Blake Belladonna __** _@blakebelladonna ·_ now  
_Replying to @yangxiaolong @Blackjacked28_  
just so everyone’s aware, she is currently reading the wikipedia article for mutualism out loud to me

 **yang xiao long __** _@yangxiaolong ·_ now  
_Replying to @blakebelladonna @Blackjacked28_  
knowledge is power

\--

Another week, another wrap party. 

_Out of Fire_ finishes production, has an emotional last day of filming and a cake to cut. Both Nebula and Yang make a short speech, and then the director herself, citing the entire cast and crew as a pleasure to work with. Blake’s allowed to attend this one, wearing yet another designer dress and holding Yang by the jaw, both of them downing cocktail after cocktail - _palomas_ for Yang, _whiskey sours_ for Blake - and she thinks she’s finally understanding the truth of Hollywood’s darker side, all its dastardly allure and unavoidable dead ends. 

It’s glamor, sure, but it’s also power. It’s money. It’s cocaine. 

She’s sure that if Yang were a _slightly_ different person, they’d have events like this every week, only they’d be more private, paid off. Hidden in high-class establishments and executives’ backyards. There’s always a party, Yang’d told her once, and they’re so _easy_ to get addicted to, easy to revolve a lifestyle around. Snort it through a hundred dollar bill and fuck whatever touches you next.

That’s what happens when you’re young and talented and beautiful, Yang says, shrugging over her glass. Her mouth is a sign of that _almost,_ the danger she could’ve become. Either everybody wants to die for you, or kill you themselves.

\--

For the band, it’s a return to album cover art, photo shoots, and release dates. Yang’s heading into her usual, auditions and talk shows and fractured availability. 

‘Alone Together’ gets a green light for September twenty-ninth, _just_ in time for eligibility into next year’s Grammys, though the album itself won’t be eligible until the year following that. Sun posts a mysterious photo - a blown-up fraction of their album cover - to the band’s Instagram, their outlines awash in purples and pinks, with just the date _9.25_ as the caption. For about ten minutes, Yang changes her Twitter name to _pre-order alone together on itunes_ and posts a screenshot of her own pre-order; the tweet itself is captured and spread approximately a thousand times before she deletes it. 

She hadn’t really needed to, she says later, but she’d wanted Blake’s success to feel earned rather than shared.

“And what if it flops?” Blake asks.

“Impossible.” She says it with such certainty that Blake can’t even muster up the resolve needed to argue.

\--

It’s the state of the industry; ever-changing and quickly evolving, something’s _always_ breaking out. Gossip, new talent, scandal - pick a day.

Pyrrha texts her first, before she gets the chance to hear the news from other sources. 

_Jaune and I broke up,_ she says. _It was mutual. We were both so busy, and we just...stopped missing each other._

Blake’s resting with her head on Yang’s chest, reading the messages as they roll in. Neither of them have much to say about it; it’s not as if they hadn’t seen it coming. 

“I think something happened,” Yang murmurs into her hair, free hand scratching lightly against her scalp. “Something with Weiss.” 

“Yeah,” Blake responds, voice just as low. They can’t disturb the silence with somebody else’s secrets. “She won’t talk about it, but...I think so, too.” 

“Why not?” 

“Weiss is nothing if not pragmatic,” Blake says. “She won’t share something she doesn’t consider hers.” 

“I’m not mad at Pyrrha for not telling me,” Yang continues, and sighs, sets her chin against the top of Blake’s head. “I don’t know what I would’ve done if I’d been seeing someone when I met you.” 

“I do,” Blake says, and they both take a moment to read Pyrrha’s latest text: _I don’t know how to explain what I feel, only that it’s there._ “You would’ve done exactly what she’s doing now. And it would’ve been just as hard to explain.” 

Lips against her hair, and a happiness they’d found that should’ve been fleeting and wasn’t. Certainty and souls and a sky with clouds in the shapes of flowers, blooming. They’d faced a different kind of obstacle to overcome, and now only a clear path forward stretches out in front of them.

“They’ll get there,” Yang closes, content with who she is and what she’s holding in her arms. It’s hard to imagine what she was before it, without it. “At least, I hope they do.”

\--

‘Alone Together’ debuts at number two, an achievement she finds out about only when she wakes up the morning of the twenty-ninth to Yang’s mouth wrapping around her clit.

“Told you,” Yang says, smile as sweet as the way Blake tastes against her tongue. 

\--

 **buy alone together on itunes** _@b_belladonna_ · 1h  
she sounds so different omg not like the vibe like its still menagerie but like….idk how to explain it im obsessed

 **stream alone together on spotify** @ _themonkeyking_ · 1h  
_Replying to @b_belladonna_  
no i know what u mean it’s like...just lighter or something?

 **buy alone together on itunes** _@b_belladonna_ · 1h  
_Replying to @themonkeyking_  
yeah! like i feel like she even SOUNDS happy singing 

**stream alone together on spotify** @ _themonkeyking_ · 1h  
_Replying to @b_belladonna_  
yea i was listening to btc before this and it’s so obvious 

**court** @ _the1ast1augh_ · 1h  
_Replying to @themonkeyking @b_belladonna_  
Well I think when u go from an abusive relationship to a healthy one the change is going to be pretty noticeable lol

 **buy alone together on itunes** _@b_belladonna_ · 1h  
**__**_Replying to @the1ast1augh @themonkeyking_  
wait court what are you talking about

 **court** @ _the1ast1augh_ · 1h  
_Replying to @themonkeyking @b_belladonna_  
Dude she used to date the head of white fang and he like beat the shit out of her. It’s not like common knowledge but like I think most of her fans from that period of time know. That’s literally what BTC is about

 **stream alone together on spotify** @ _themonkeyking_ · 1h  
_Replying to @the1ast1augh @b_belladonna_  
holy shit WHAT how is he not IN PRISON

 **court** @ _the1ast1augh_ · 1h  
_Replying to @themonkeyking @b_belladonna_  
Idk from what I understand she just wanted to move on with her life

 **stream alone together on spotify** @ _themonkeyking_ · 1h  
_Replying to @the1ast1augh @b_belladonna_  
omg this explains so much….yang’s like interview about her movie months ago where she went off about domestic abuse. wtffffff god well i’m glad she’s out of that jesus

[Show additional replies, including those that may contain sensitive content **Show** ]

 **Will** _@ProWill24_ · 1h  
**__**_Replying to @the1ast1augh @themonkeyking @b_belladonna_  
She probably deserved it. Fucking slut

\--

They have time to relish in their success; their next single isn’t slated to drop until November. Just as Yang’s public appearances are starting to dial down, Blake’s are the opposite - with an album release date set for late January, the band’s at the part of the process where _they’re_ sent out on interviews, prepping coverage in advance or generating early excitement. 

And, she learns from Weiss, _everyone_ wants to talk to them. It isn’t hard to figure out why.

‘Alone Together’ doesn’t even try to hide who it’s about, and it’s apparently something that gives her both leverage and credit. They want to hear about her inspiration, her writing process, her time in the recording studio. Where does she get her influence, how does the band manage to maintain its unique sound. And her relationship. All of them are _dying_ for a taste of her relationship, and she can actually see the clickbait headlines forming as they talk to her. 

She tolerates it. Even thinks it’s a little funny. 

The most memorable one is for _AltPress_ \- it includes a small cover shoot, more authentic than styled; they’re allowed to wear their own clothes, and Blake shows up in one of Yang’s leather jackets over a grey t-shirt with aviators hanging from the collar, french-tucked into black, ripped jeans. And boots. She wouldn’t be caught dead without boots, she says, grinning into her hot tea. 

“Yeah,” Sun says, “but only because you’re so _tiny_ without them. We’d crush you accidentally.” 

“Shut up, asshole,” she says.

“Yang probably has to avoid stepping on you daily.” 

“I’m going to kill you.” 

The interviewer laughs. They’re seated across two couches in a large studio space, with the interviewer in an armchair across from them; they haven’t technically gotten started, and so she doesn’t feel bad about their brief reprieve from professionalism. The first sign he’s a good interviewer is that he doesn’t hear the name _Yang_ and immediately jump into a line of questioning; he merely pushes on, following his predetermined notes.

**So, first of all, congratulations on your successful single release - number two! Is that a new record for you?**

**BELLADONNA:** Yeah.  
**VASILIAS:** I think ‘Burning the Candle’ only got to five.  
**WUKONG:** Only, he says. [ _Laughs._ ]  
**AMITOLA:** [ _Laughs._ ] He’s making us sound pretentious and ungrateful. Five was amazing.  
**BELLADONNA:** No, five was incredible. We never expected that, so two is even more unbelievable. 

**It’s a pretty distinct departure from the vibe of your last album.**

**BELLADONNA:** I think that’s a good thing. As long as we’re still recognizable.  
**WUKONG:** I think we are, but [ _Laughs_ ] I guess I’m probably not the best judge of that.  
**BELLADONNA:** Yeah, it’s just that we’re in a different place in our lives. Our first album was really raw, just in every sense of the word. And I wouldn’t necessarily call us polished now, but I think we’re--  
**AMITOLA:** \--Better. Honestly. I think we’re just better than we were then. Better at our instruments, better at like, knowing who we are and following through with that.  
**WUKONG:** Yeah, that sounds kind of weird, but I think she’s right. [ _Laughs_.] Like, I think we’ve just become better with experience. Because now we’ve been out here for a few years, we’ve been in the industry, we’ve worked for what we have. 

**Can we expect the rest of the album to follow a similar pattern?**

**VASILIAS:** Depends on what you mean.

**In tone, style, subject matter.**

**BELLADONNA:** [ _Laughs_.] I think we experiment a little bit more with the first two, but the subject matter is definitely consistent.  
**VASILIAS:** Yeah, Blake wrote more outside of the box than she normally does. Like, the music itself is different because of the subject matter. I mean, obviously they aren’t all sort of sultry and upbeat or however you define ‘Alone Together’, but they aren’t heavy the way I think some of the songs on our last album were.  
**BELLADONNA:** Some of them are heavy in a different way. More hopeful than hopeless, I guess I’d say.  
**WUKONG:** Yeah, totally.

**Okay, I’d like to preface this by stating that I literally wrote down ‘do not ask about Yang Xiao Long’ in my notes [ _Laughter_ ] but it seems like she played a pretty significant role in your work.**

**BELLADONNA:** [ _Laughs._ ] Honestly, that’s fair. I don’t really talk about her publicly, which I guess seems weird considering I wrote basically an entire album about her--  
**AMITOLA:** [ _Sarcastic tone_ ] Yeah, totally subtle. [ _Laughs._ ]  
**BELLADONNA:** I was like, [ _Laughs_ ] nobody will ever know I’m writing about my incredibly famous girlfriend, so don’t ask me about it. But now that seems kind of stupid.  
**WUKONG:** It’s because you’re stupid.  
**BELLADONNA:** Thanks, jackass.  
**WUKONG:** I mean, you’re wearing her jacket.  
**VASILIAS:** I think he had an actual question for you to answer  
**BELLADONNA:** Oh, right. [ _Laughs._ ] Yeah, she did. I think that’s universal, though; you’re inspired by people in your life who’ve changed you, whether for better or for worse. Our last album was for worse. And this album is for better. 

**There’s something very poetic about that. I like it.**

**BELLADONNA:** Thanks.

**So, tell me about your favorite tracks off the album…**

\--

It’s published near the end of October. Yang frames it and hangs it on her wall.

\--

Ruby’s birthday is Halloween, so of course it’s a costume party. Just as it is _every_ year. 

“And she holds a _contest,_ ” Yang says, scrolling through a Google list of creative ideas for couples. She’s stretched out on top of her bed, chin in her hand. “Some of her friends get _super_ into it, so I never win. I’ve kind of given up on it, honestly.” 

“That’s fine with me,” Blake says, strolling aimlessly through Yang’s closet, waiting for a stroke of inspiration to strike. “I’d prefer to put in as little effort as possible.” 

“I love that about you.” 

“I know you do.” 

So it’s perfect, in theory; they’re automatic invitees by association, and they won’t dress like they’re anything more. This, Yang says, is Ruby’s _thing_ \- her friends, her party, her penchant for the technical behind the gaudy. She appreciates the skill of costuming, makeup, performance. 

But it’s not so perfect when Ruby sees what they’re wearing the night of the party. 

“ _What_ the _fuck,_ ” she says, eyes comically blowing out of her skull, “are the two of you _doing?_ ” 

Blake points to the fluffy black ears protruding from the top of her head and says, “I’m a cat.” Her nose is even cutely painted in, undoubtedly by Yang, with whiskers on her cheeks to match. She’s dressed in all black otherwise. 

“ _Blake,_ ” Ruby moans, physically pained by the lack of imagination; for a moment Blake’s convinced she might pass out just for the dramatics of it. “How _could_ you!” She rounds on her sister. “And _you!_ ” 

Too much of the wig’s black hair is curling over her face; Yang keeps brushing it out of the way, tucking it behind her ears. There’s a children’s toy guitar hanging from one shoulder, and she’s wearing tight black jeans, her cleavage spilling out of a white blouse that obviously doesn’t belong to her. 

“I’m Blake Belladonna,” she says, and fingers the blue button of the four ‘notes’ available. A rocking guitar solo plays from its built-in speakers. She pretends to play along, even headbanging for part of the song, which almost sends her wig flying off.

“Oh my God,” Ruby whispers, horrified while Blake leans against the wall beside her, in inconsolable hysterics. Yang straightens her hair, grins like she’s never been so pleased with herself. “Oh my _God!_ ” 

“I think we should win,” Yang tells her earnestly. 

Blake laughs so hard she has to excuse herself to fix her eyeliner, and by the time she returns, Ruby’s abandoned Yang for her guests in the yard; you know, she snarks, the ones I actually _invited,_ who _appreciate_ my love of the holiday. 

They spend the rest of the night doing shots of Fireball in the kitchen (a tradition, Yang explains, though can’t seem to remember where it’d began), watching the guests outside drinking _morgue-a-ritas_ and _caramel apple cocktails_ from the bar, eating eyeball tacos and witch fingers. Weiss pops in to join them, once or twice, doing her own shots without saying much, and even when she’s sufficiently drunk she keeps her conflict to herself. Pyrrha isn’t there. They let it be.

There’s a ghost rigged from the roof to a tree in the corner of the yard, and it’s wired to fly by the gate every twenty minutes, shocking whoever’s unlucky enough to be standing beneath it - but from their vantage point safe inside, the occasional haunting seems nothing more than an amusingly bad gimmick.

\--

Their second single, ‘Lighting the Fire’, releases mid-November and coincides with a talk show Yang’s scheduled for post _Out of Fire_ \- it’s both to keep her relevant and add to early buzz for the film, though it won’t be out of post-production for another few months, and likely won’t see a premiere until late the following year. Her future projects aren’t quite ready to be talked about; she’s got a callback lined up for the biopic she’d been sent the morning after she’d met Blake, though the casting director had told her agent it was merely a formality.

“All of this _fire,_ ” Yang laughs, reading Billboard’s overwhelmingly positive review of the song. “There’s no way I’m not gonna get asked about you tomorrow.” 

“Can’t you like, forbid me or whatever?” Blake asks lazily, stretched out on her stomach, long red lines like war paint down her back. She’s going to start releasing singles just for the wake-up calls alone. “As a topic of conversation, I mean.”

“We could,” Yang says, scrolling, but pauses over a picture of Blake on stage from the band’s last tour, holding the microphone in both hands. “But that’s usually saved for a scandal - like, unless something _really_ bad happened, we probably wouldn’t make you an off-limits topic.” 

“That’s fair.” She turns her head, catches her own face on Yang’s laptop screen and grins into her pillow. She can hear the questions posed, can hear Yang’s voice steady over answers, and no interviewer is ever going to get what they want from her, from either of them: yes, it’s love. But it’s a love she’ll spend the rest of her life trying to capture in words, like fireflies in a mason jar. She’ll fail every time. They just don’t belong there.

\--

Blake ends up accompanying her last-minute; Yang’s persuasive when she wants to be. In this instance, all she has to do is put on a strapless dress with her legs bare and heels on, black overcoat draped across her shoulders, and asks, “D’you wanna come?” 

“ _Yes_ ,” Blake says with a dry throat, hopes the double entendre is just as persuasive as Yang’s outfit. “I do. Want to come. Absolutely.” 

But Yang only laughs, extends a hand to her; she’s sitting cross-legged on their hastily-made bed, staring like she’s watching her own private movie. “Slut,” Yang teases harmlessly, and it breaks Blake’s grin wide open. “Me fucking you daily has really given you a one-track mind, huh?” 

“No,” Blake says, taking her hand, allowing Yang to nudge her off the bed. Their height difference becomes instantly apparent, and Blake grimaces on instinct, Yang’s mouth twisting the opposite direction. Showing that much skin should be classified as a murder weapon, in Blake’s opinion, though the sharp point of her heels actually might be. She acquiesces, “Maybe. Do I need to change?” 

“Nah,” Yang says, eyeing the fraying tears in Blake’s tight jeans like she’d rather rip them straight off. “You’re green-room ready, baby.” 

\--

Yang texts Glynda about the added company, though she doesn’t seem particularly surprised by it anyway. Neither does anyone else in the crew, though they’re excited by her presence; the host actually introduces himself before the taping starts, and he’s more genuine than Blake expects, tells them he has a daughter in college who just came out to him; he always knew, though, he says. 

“She had a few too many pictures of you on her wall,” he drawls, and Yang laughs, delighted by the revelation. 

“Your daughter and I have that in common,” Blake deadpans, and the joke lands perfectly; even Glynda cracks a smile, one corner of her mouth upturned. 

“Now she’s into _both_ of you,” he says. “Actually, I think that’s why she told us.” 

“We’ll sign something for her,” Yang promises, her fingers resting against Blake’s wrist, blood warm underneath her fingertips, and he can’t thank them enough.

\--

That’s what it’s about, Yang says softly to her after, watching him tuck the note into an inside jacket pocket. Sometimes I wonder if it’s worth it, and then people tell me things like that, and I know it is.

\--

The taping’s quick; Blake watches from backstage, chewing mindlessly on carrots and waiting to hear her own name. It doesn’t take long; they reminisce about Yang’s last appearance on the show, her awards season, and then it’s a little more personal before talking about her upcoming projects.

“So, really, Yang,” the host starts, posture almost too easy-going and relaxed, “let’s be honest--”

“Oh, no--”

“--for anyone watching who doesn’t know, you’re dating the lead singer of alternative rock band Menagerie, Blake Belladonna.” 

“Oh, that’s it?” she asks. “Yeah, we can talk about that. When you opened with ‘let’s be honest,’ I thought you were gonna ask me about, I don’t know, the state of the country or something.” 

“No, that’s after,” he jokes, patting his desk absentmindedly. 

“Great.” Her smile blossoms brilliantly; she’s impossible not to be charmed by. Sirens, incubi. Other creatures gorgeous and deadly. 

He continues, “Her second single just released, and I think it’s common knowledge now that any _she_ referred to in her lyrics is you, is that right?” 

“Well I hope so, or we’re gonna need to have a talk,” she drawls, and the audience laughs with her. “Yes, I’m, uh - like, it’s not as if she name-drops me, though I would’ve loved that”--more laughter--“but there are...a lot of pronouns in her songs. And a lot of them are me. Let’s say that.” 

He loves it, eats it up. “So what’s it like having an album written about you?” 

“It sucks,” she deadpans and the audience laughs again, but she backtracks with a smile - running sarcasm doesn’t always hold up as well on talk shows. “It’s incredible, obviously. Menagerie’sbeen my favorite band since their debut, so - I mean, yeah, it’s pretty mind-blowing.” 

“Did you know in advance?” the host asks. “Or did she surprise you with it?” 

“She surprised me,” Yang says, and strangely, she doesn’t feel the same need to hold back that usually overtakes her - she wants to share more, wants to tell everyone how much love is there, what it does, what it looks like. “It was actually - on my birthday, back in the summer. It was one of the first rough copies, but after my birthday party, she like - she dragged me into the living room and gave it to me, and we listened to it together.” 

The audience _awww_ ’s at that - some woman in the first row literally has a hand over her heart, and several younger girls are nearly vibrating in their seats. The host shares in the emotion with them. “That’s sweet, that’s so sweet,” he says, and Yang’s comfortable with the knowledge that he’s authentically invested. “And you’d been together only for a short time then, though, right? Six months? Were you sort of - I mean, isn’t that a lot of pressure?” 

Yang actually giggles, like there’s a joke she’s about to let the audience in on; somehow she makes it seem intimate, close, rather than a presentation to the world. She confesses, “I asked her to write me a song the night I met her, so if anything - I think she rose to the challenge spectacularly.” 

It’s the closing the host is waiting for; there’s more murmurings of adoration, smattered applause, and then he says, “She absolutely did, she absolutely did. So, now, Yang, tell me about _Out of Fire_ …” 

\--

December to January sees a slightly hectic schedule; Yang’s secured the part for the currently-untitled biopic about an award-winning journalist, and the band’s shooting their music video for ‘Alone Together’ _._ Though the concept team suggests taking advantage of the fact that the girl it’s written about is an accessible, world-famous actress, it just feels wrong to utilize her that way, and Yang agrees.

Maybe down the line, she says with a smile; she’d picked Blake up for dinner after the band’s meeting, and decided to take them all out. They wind up at a close-by sushi restaurant in Hollywood, modern with deep colored lights reflecting off the white marble, and a menu that lends itself to nothing but wealth.

“Although,” she adds wistfully, “it _does_ sound kinda fun.” 

“You want a cameo?” Sun asks, shoveling sashimi into his mouth.

“Is that, like, allowed?” Yang asks. 

“It’s our song,” Blake says. “It’s allowed.” 

“Plus,” Neptune adds - he’s having a hard time deciding between the rolls spread out in front of him, going back and forth between spicy tuna and crab - “I don’t think they’re gonna say no to _you._ Adding you to anything is like, tons of free publicity for us.” 

“I’m happy to be of service,” Yang says with a grin, chopsticks closing around a double-tempura shrimp roll. “Let me know if you want a paid partnership. Have your people call my people.” 

Blake picks up her phone, deliberately swipes to _calls,_ and taps Yang’s number, holding it up to her ear as it rings. Yang answers it, grin pulling at her lips. “Hello?” 

“Hey,” Blake says, both five inches from her face and through the speaker. “D’you want a cameo in our music video? The song’s about you.” 

“ _Me?_ ” Yang asks, flabbergasted. “Oh my God - that’s flattering and everything, but I have a girlfriend.” 

“We can keep this between us,” Blake says. “She doesn’t even have to know.”

“I’m not sure about this,” Yang says. Her brow furrows, reads troubled. 

“I’m a vault, baby. Promise.” 

“Well.. _._ ” 

“Can you like, knock it off?” Ilia whines, digging around her rice. “Come on. We’re at _dinner._ I’m gonna throw up.”

Sun smacks the back of her head lightly, laughing at the display. It isn’t protective, but he likes to see them as they are; he’s always reminded of a time he saw nothing at all, and how devastating it was when it finally came into the light.

“Anyway,” Sun says, a clear diversion tactic, “did you know when they renovated this building like, five years ago or something, they found a body in the elevator shaft?” 

“What?” Neptune says. 

“Yeah,” he continues. “They think it’s from like, the forties or something. We should’ve brought a ouija board.” 

“Ghosts aren’t real,” Blake says flatly, a tone suggesting repetition. They’ve had this conversation a thousand times; somehow neither of them ever tire of fighting to be right.

“Maybe his spirit’s been lingering around, waiting for his murder to be solved,” Sun drops his voice ominously.

“Now I’m really gonna throw up,” Ilia says.

\--

The video itself doesn’t take long to shoot - maybe a week, even if that, and winds up relatively simple in its concept and execution: Blake, moving throughout a day blurred in its extremities; the people, the cars, the streets, the sky. She’s the only vivid thing in the frame, though she shares the main spotlight with a male actor they’d cast and an androgynous model; to each of them, they have fleeting, passing moments with others in clarity before they fade away again - passing on the sidewalk, laughing over drinks, falling into bed. 

Yang gets a little more than a cameo, mostly because once they see her with Blake, they can’t find another actor - whether male or female or neither at all - who has nearly as much chemistry. Blake’s scenes are the ones shot in a bar, and Yang plays opposite her for a few, brief shots - she becomes clearer and clearer until she’s pressed against a pool table, Blake smiling an inch from her mouth. Their director hadn’t called for a kiss, only telling them to do what felt right in the moment; and, well, it feels right. Yang’s wearing her necklace. Blake _has_ to kiss her.

That’s what the song’s about, anyway: the world imploding at its edges, how inevitability gets its definition from the two of them alone together.

\--

The holidays arrive in a dazzlingly blue bitterness, a chill settling over the city despite the constant sunshine. Darkness drops at five p.m.; all the locals wear big overcoats and boots like they’re expecting snow. Blake’s now among them. She’s been there too long, let her blood thin. Fifty, she finds herself admitting, is fucking freezing.

Kali and Ghira can’t make it out to California - something’s _always_ breaking in politics, Blake says, and they’d never put a ton of stock into holidays to begin with; ‘revolution doesn’t stop with Christmas’ had become an old family inside joke - but she picks out a tree with Yang and Ruby, whose standards for trees are incredibly high. It takes them three hours and five lots to find the right tree, but they wind up with an eight-foot balsam fir, full and even and fragrant. Weiss comes over and helps them string it with bubble lights and tinsel, hanging ornaments they’d collected from all over the world - tours and trips and location shoots - and then watches Ruby nearly destroy the whole thing when she loses her balance on the stepladder, attempting to steady the angel on top. 

Weiss makes a spiced cider. She looks just as she always has, like she’s able to keep whatever conflict she’s having internally from manifesting. Blake wonders what that’s like, if that’s something she’s trained for or something that’s always come naturally to her. They watch _The Holiday_ on Amazon Prime into the late hours of the night, and they all fall asleep on the couch together, warm underneath the blankets. 

\--

Christmas itself involves Tai coming in from Malibu to spend the day with them, exchanging strangely practical, joke gifts; there’s nothing to get the girls who have everything, he stage-whispers to Blake, who only smirks into her tea. There’s a specific, shared memory being recalled between them, if Yang’s own grin is anything to go by.

She thinks of her wrists in ribbons, tied together overhead. Thinks of how she’s glad it’s winter and has an excuse for scarves and turtlenecks.

New Years’ is a party, this time held at Nora’s house - she lives in Beverly Hills and she hosts like she does, with a hundred bottles of _actual_ champagne (from _Champagne_ , _France_ , she trills) and a chocolate fountain and a perfect view of the fireworks. The display isn’t the only thing they’re keeping tabs on; Weiss and Pyrrha have finally worked their way up to eye contact from opposite ends of the room, every room. It’s oppressive without having a body, a physical form. Strings wrapping from their pinkies and tight. 

Nora’s noticed, too. She crooks a single eyebrow with her smirk when she meets Blake’s stare, a silent confirmation. But there’s a boredom there, too, as if she’s saying _God, let them get on with it._

Just before midnight, Yang’s champagne-drunk and her lips have a mind of their own, lipgloss-kisses leaving faint sheens on Blake’s cheeks, her mouth. “You know,” she murmurs, “the way you spend New Year’s Eve is the way you spend the rest of the year.” 

“I thought this was Beverly Hills,” Blake says, wrapping an arm around her waist, other hand resting over Yang’s heart. It beats, clutched in her palm. Drums against her bones. Blake’s entire album plays on a loop in her head, scrawled across Yang’s skin. “Not _The O.C._ ” 

“Pop culture leaves a legacy,” Yang says, undeterred. “I love you.”

“Well, then,” Blake says with a sly smile, “thank you.”

The countdown begins, but there’s no point waiting for the closing of it - she doesn’t need to pack the year away in a box, doesn’t need to tie it neatly and wrap it up - she wants it left messy and open and _hers,_ full of things to pull out and pour over like diary entries - _today I kissed a girl and I lost my sense of time, I think I’m fifty years from now -_ she kisses Yang at _ten_ , tastes chocolate and cherries and continues long after _one_ hits. 

Weiss and Pyrrha have disappeared by the time the immediate celebration of the new year ends. Blake isn’t sure if it’s a good or a bad thing, and isn’t sure she even wants to know.

\--

Their music video releases two weeks before their album and coincides with Oscar nominations. Yang’s on the list for lead actress, but she isn’t surprised by it; “We kind of _know,_ ” she admits, reading the rest of the names on her phone. “Not like we’re tipped off, but we know the critically acclaimed movies of the year, what’s been said about our own performances. Once in awhile, there’s a surprise - usually it’s an indie film and a fresh face - but I mean...getting _nominated_ isn’t surprising. Winning is surprising.”

“Do you think you’re gonna win this year?” Blake asks.

She smiles, thumbs back up to her own category:

**Lead Actress**

Saphron Cotta-Arc, “ _Out of the Blue”_  
Yang Xiao Long, _“If the Sun Ever Sets in Florence”_  
Sienna Kahn, _“Necessary Sacrifice”_  
Emerald Sustrai, _“Breach”_  
Pyrrha Nikos, _“Destiny”_

“No,” she says with certainty. “My instinct says Saphron’s gonna take it - but Pyrrha’s also a likely option. She’s probably the underdog, and the Academy loves an underdog, so...I wouldn’t count her out.”

“Why not you?” 

Yang laughs, and unable to help herself, presses an adoring kiss to Blake’s mouth. “I’m talented,” she allows, “but with the state Hollywood’s in - this was never a role I was gonna _win_ for.”

She’s not the only one with accomplishments, though; their music video goes viral, and the scene of her kissing Yang takes over both of their Instagram tags, Twitter notifications. So many people set it as their icons that for a solid minute, Blake’s convinced the same person has tagged her in a hundred tweets before she realizes. 

They watch it together; Yang’s used to watching herself on-screen, but Blake keeps blinking, turning her face away and blushing. It’s hard for her to reconcile herself, or it used to be - and maybe that’s what’s jarring now. She recognizes the woman she’s looking at. She didn’t always.

 _damn yang looks so good,_ Sun texts her. _2 bad they couldnt fix ur face during the editing_

_shut up asshole_

_lollllll love u_

“At least we know we look hot when we kiss,” Yang says, clicking _replay._

\--

By the time their album release rolls around, Blake’s about ready to throw herself over - a ledge, a mountain, the city itself, dive straight into the ocean. She’s nothing but nerves, skin peeled back and stripped away. Her heart echoes like a gong, everywhere inside of her at once. 

She barely sleeps - Yang dips a hand between her legs, fucks her slowly, circles her clit, makes her cum over and over until she’s too exhausted to do anything but. 

It’s not that she’s worried the album will flop - she knows for a fact it won’t; she’s seen early reviews, heard the outrageous number of presales - it’s that it’ll be out of her control, words she’s written up for interpretation and lacking the context she’d created them in. It’s that, in the end, she can’t stop anyone from calling her a liar. From saying no, no - if this is your blood, then spill it.

It isn’t just that I love her, she wishes she could add in a note. It’s that I love who I am, too. Who I’ve finally become.

\--

She wakes up to the sun blanketing Yang’s smile like that’s the only reason it burns at all. 

“Congratulations, number one,” Yang says, and her pride is so tangible the room breathes like helium, ready to float itself away.

She hands over her phone, open to the Billboard charts.

 **1\. Until You**  
_Menagerie_

\--

Yang invites the entire band to the Oscars in February; Tai went last year, and Ruby doesn’t want to go - she’s socialized way too much recently, she says - and Weiss is apparently already going. Nobody touches that the minute it’s uttered aloud. 

“I’m nobody’s date,” she clarifies, face flushing heavily. She has skin that isn’t afraid of betraying her at the most inopportune moments. “I’m just - I’m going.” 

She does. Seated on the other side of Nora and Ren, far enough that she isn’t quite picked up by cameras during the nominee shots, she’s her own name with her own life and not a knockoff of it. She isn’t _Menagerie’s manager_ , isn’t _friend of Yang Xiao Long._ She’s Weiss Schnee, and she’s here for her own reasons, like to watch a girl she may or may not love win an Oscar.

Pyrrha’s stunned - so stunned Nora has to help her stand, nudge her to the stage - somewhere in the audience, Sun is wolf-whistling, Yang and Blake screaming in excitement beside him. There’s not an ounce of disappointment, not a sliver; “If anyone deserves this,” Yang says, “it’s her. Plus,” she adds gleefully, “look at Emerald’s fucking _face_. What a bitch.”

The award’s heavy in Pyrrha’s hands, the weight of success defined as the shape of a person encased in twenty-four karat gold.

She finds Weiss in the crowd, and takes a breath.

\--

After that, Weiss throws herself into work. Their tour dates are sold out, but before that, Beacon Records’ twentieth anniversary is coming up; they’re hosting a label-wide event in celebration, and they’ve asked Menagerie to perform, she explains.

“It’s a month away,” she says, typing something on her phone. “It’s at the Roosevelt - you’ll perform at the Fonda first, but that showcase should be done by about ten.”

“Great,” Blake says. “How many songs are we allowed?” 

“They asked a lot of their artists to perform, so you’ll only do about three.” Weiss pauses, considers something. “You can pick if you’d like, but I think it’d be polite to ask them if they have requests.”

“I’m fine with that.” She looks to the band for opinions, but Sun only shrugs, and Neptune nods in time with Weiss, apparently agreeing. 

“Excellent.” The typing intensifies. “Now, guests. You’re only allowed a couple each to the actual showcase, but more can attend the afterparty; I’m assuming Yang and Ruby for you, Blake. Neptune, Sun, Ilia?” 

Conversations with Weiss are largely her agreeing to things Weiss has already thought through. “You’d be correct.” 

“Sage and Fox, if they didn’t get invites through the label,” Sun says. “And Neptune’s parents.”

“Fuck, dude,” Neptune complains automatically. “Come _on._ ” 

“You _know_ they’ll be pissed if they don’t get an invite, dude,” Sun threatens. “They’re like, proud of you and shit, and they’re local. You _gotta_ invite them.”

“Fine.” 

“How about the afterparty?” Weiss continues, undeterred by their brief argument. “Any of Yang’s friends?” 

She can already picture Nora’s indignation if she’s passed up; the outrage is almost definitely not worth it. “Nora,” she says immediately. “So add Ren to that, and…” she draws it out, mostly to catalogue Weiss’s reaction - it’s as stoic and passive as ever, but her fingers seem almost twitchy, as if waiting for an excuse to type a specific name. “...Pyrrha.” 

“Okay,” Weiss says, keeping her voice steady. Nobody else notices the power play. “Jaune, as a courtesy? I believe he’s on location at the moment, anyway.” 

“Sure,” Blake says, resisting the urge to break the stalemate at last. Pyrrha - it’s _there,_ an obstruction, an object, and they both know it but refuse to talk about it. Blake can’t quite figure out why. “That’d be nice.” 

“One last thing,” Weiss says. “They’re booking a block of rooms - a lot of people from the New York branch are flying out for this. Now, I know it seems ridiculous, considering you all live rather close to the hotel, but--” 

“Oh, sign me the _fuck_ up,” Sun interrupts excitedly, his eyes gleaming, and Blake groans. “I want a room. I mean, I want one anyway, ‘cause Neptune and I are kinda far--” 

Weiss looks slightly alarmed by his enthusiasm; Blake explains exasperatedly, “He thinks it’s haunted. He’s always wanted to stay there and see for himself.” 

“Uh, it _is_ haunted,” he says. “Blake, I _dare_ you--”

“Oh, Jesus.” 

“--to stay a night in the hotel, and we’ll see if we have any _paranormal experiences._ ” He says this very seriously, almost heated in his intensity. 

As stupid as Blake thinks he is, she isn’t one to back down from a challenge this easy to win. They would’ve stayed regardless; it’s much easier to collapse drunkenly upstairs than to wade back through the paparazzi - plus, hotels allow them to be as loud as they’d like to. That’s been a problem, recently - Blake can’t seem to control herself when Yang’s fucking her into the mattress, and with Ruby home, it’s been a little harder to get away with. “I’ll stay the night, and hopefully I’ll be too drunk to wake up from any _paranormal activity_ anyway.” 

Weiss closes her mouth, opens it again, apparently choosing to press on. She’s familiar with Sun’s _ghost hunter_ obsession, but he rarely has an opportunity to be so vocal about it. “Okay,” she says, “which brings me to my next point, I suppose. Blake, assuming Yang is staying with you, you’ll get a suite automatically - possibly the penthouse, if it’s available. Your label’s execs are important, but none of them hold a candle to her.”

“Wow,” Ilia says. “Perks of fame, huh?” 

“She’s in extremely high demand right now,” Weiss says, as if that’s new information and not Yang’s status all the time. “She’s been nominated two years in a row for lead actress - and won, last year. Security is a huge issue for her.” 

Sun looks over at Blake. “You’ll be where the old-time Hollywood celebrities probably haunt,” he tells her earnestly. “Can I come in and like, hang out for a little? Maybe have a seance? I bet Marilyn’s there.” 

“Sure,” Blake says, keeping her amusement in check. “Whatever.” 

“I’ll pass,” Ilia says. “I like going home when I’m drunk.”

“Wonderful,” Weiss says, clearly relieved to have all the necessary information from them; it’d be offensive if they weren’t so used to it. “Please mark your calendars - April seventh. And you leave for tour a week later.” 

“Awesome.” Sun’s enthusiasm is so authentic it’s almost overpowering. “Gonna prove ghosts exist, and then go on tour. Exciting shit, huh, guys?” 

“Actually, I’m going to spend a great night in a fancy hotel room, fucking my girlfriend,” Blake replies without an ounce of sarcasm. Weiss literally gets up and leaves the room without another word. “And then I’m going on tour.” 

“Thank you,” Neptune says, pained, looking like he wishes he could follow her. “Really. Thanks for that.” 

Blake only grins; Ilia doesn’t seem to know what to feel about it, if anything at all. But Sun laughs, unaffected; he is as he’s always been - happy to see her happy. “That’s the _spirit_ ,” he says, and somehow, it isn’t the worst joke she’s ever heard.

\--

As it turns out, they aren’t particularly _anniversary_ people, because they forget about it entirely until the day-of. They’re more consumed with ideas for Blake’s birthday; Yang keeps proposing wild vacations, Fiji or Cape Town or Paris, and it’s only when she’s in the middle of looking up spa details for Bath, England that she realizes. 

“Oh, hey,” she says, careless in her surprise. “It’s our one-year anniversary.” 

Blake has the decency to look mildly impressed. “Wow. That’s it?” 

“Fame’s aged you,” Yang agrees, tilting her head as if examining Blake’s face from all angles. “I should buy into a skincare company. You need it.” 

“Or you can give me the number of your plastic surgeon,” Blake replies, charmingly dry. “I can barely see the botox.” 

Their laughter is enough; it always is. They order pizza, forgoing a fancy dinner at any one of the city’s glittering and glamorous establishments, and Blake decides she wants to turn twenty-six quietly, just like this, thankful to be alive.

\--

The day of Beacon Records’ party arrives; Blake’s required to get their early with the rest of the band, leaving Yang to a surprise factor - there’s no sneak peaks beforehand, no watching her getting her hair curled and her makeup done. But Yang won’t keep her totally in the dark. She has motives; they’re staying at a hotel. Transient in nature, meant to seduce and blindfold and fuck. She’ll walk up to Blake tonight and be _wanted._

“How do you want me to look?” Yang asks over the phone, examining herself in the mirror. She runs a finger under her eye; she hadn’t quite managed to remove all of yesterday’s eyeliner. She warns in advance, “Coco’s here and you’re on speaker, so behave.” 

“ _Slutty,_ ” Blake answers instantly at the prompt, and Coco laughs loudly; Yang only rolls her eyes, doesn’t bother repressing a smile. “ _Tight, short, black. Seduce me._ ” 

“I don’t need to be wearing something _slutty_ to do that, babe,” Yang points out, but Coco’s mind seems to be running wild, sorting through through a rack of dresses on the right of Yang’s closet. She’s more familiar with Yang’s personal wardrobe than Yang is herself, and it definitely saves time.

“ _I’m going on tour for three months,_ ” Blake says, though the amusement in her tone ceases to hide itself. “ _Don’t you want to give me a memorable send-off?_ ” 

“Oh, we’re playing _that_ card,” Yang says, snickering. “If you think I’m not gonna be at like, every other show--” 

“ _Not the point--_ ” 

“You’re so dumb,” Yang says harmlessly, and Blake finally breaks and laughs. “I’ll look hot tonight.”

“I’ll make sure of it,” Coco calls, now rummaging through Yang’s shoes. 

“ _She always does,_ ” Blake says. “ _Love you. See you later._ ” 

“Love you,” Yang echoes, touching the _end_ button. She turns to Coco, who’s transitioned into alternatively staring at Yang as if she’s a canvas and back to various dresses, mentally picturing what she’ll look like in them. “So?” 

Coco smirks knowingly, fingers running along the material of black dress. “Oh, yeah,” she says almost evilly, “you’re gonna give Blake _exactly_ what she wants.”

\--

Blake’s jaw _actually_ drops, that’s the first embarrassing thing about it. 

She’s already at the bar with the band when Yang walks into the venue. She doesn’t even see her, at first, facing away from the door as she talks to Ilia about where to go when they’re in San Francisco. _Ilia_ is the one who notices her, dropping every word she knows from her mouth until she’s left without language entirely, her brain a shell of knowledge she used to have, eyes widening and tongue flat, and Blake glances around--

Yang is strutting towards her with a confidence that commands the room, turning every head, willing or not. She’s in a black dress that measures up to classy over scandalous, but it’s in an almost _dirty_ way; it’s tight, only comes to about mid-thigh, and the nearly entire top half is sheer: it covers her arms, her collarbones, dips down the middle of her chest to her stomach, keeping anything anyone _really_ wants to see under the darker fabric. Her hair is loose, but it’s curled, falls in delicate waves rather than the wildness it usually is. Her lips are a wicked red, smirking, eyes only for Blake.

And she’s wearing _Louboutins_ , the added height only increasing her attractiveness, her confidence, her intimidation _._ Blake walks towards her, leaves her drink on the bar, barely even remembers where they are, what they’re doing here. Forgets the turning of the earth, forgets the sun and the moon and all the stars. Yang raises a single eyebrow flirtatiously as she approaches, extends a hand automatically. 

_Are you fucking kidding me?_ is whatBlake attempts to say but severely mangles the sentiment; what actually comes out of her mouth is, “Are you _fucking_ me?”

Yang laughs, wrapping an arm around her waist. “Well, not yet, sweetheart,” she says, darkly amused. “But I’m sure you’ll get your turn.”

Blake wants her hands under that dress, wants Yang’s lipstick on her neck, wants her tongue somewhere hot and wet, _wants._ “I’d better be the _only_ one,” she answers lowly, and Yang’s smirk fades the barest hint. Blake’s already had a shot or two and everyone in the room is staring at Yang like she’s something to spread across a table and devour. “Jesus, Christ. I’m not letting you out of my _sight_ looking like this.” 

“Good,” Yang murmurs. Blake’s rarely so openly possessive, and it always measures up to sexy instead of controlling; there’s just something erotic about _desire,_ how it turns into life support. Like if Blake couldn’t touch her, she’d still die trying to. “Don’t.” 

“Holy _shit,_ ” Blake says, blatantly checking her out, eyes from top to bottom and back - it isn’t that she’s _startled_ by Yang’s beauty, but rarely does Yang take the angles she’s taking now, the lipstick, the skin, the sensuality. Normally she’s more of _her,_ Calvin Klein boyshorts and leather jackets, motorcycle boots. Normally she fucks Blake like she’s the devil, not its mistress. 

“I think I pretty much nailed your request,” Yang says, wickedly playful, and brushes past her for the bar.

\--

“If I were Blake,” Neptune says, “I’d have passed out.” 

“I’d be dead,” Sun says stupidly, staring. 

Ilia says, “I’d literally let Yang murder me.” 

\--

Menagerie performs, and it’s a miracle Blake remembers any of her own words with the way Yang’s _watching_ her the entire time, filling the room like smoke. Like she’d slip a hand underneath her dress right then and there if she could, ride her own fingers. And she could. She could. She could--

“There’s no _fucking_ way you’re wearing underwear under that dress,” Blake murmurs in her ear the minute her set ends, under the cover of the loud music of the next band. “Not even lingerie.” 

Yang’s smirk is nothing but a dark alleyway. She turns until her lips are at the shell of Blake’s ear, and says lowly, “Well, why don’t you find out?” 

_Fuck,_ fuck - she’d almost forgotten how Yang could _get_ like this, every word like cracking a whip; give her a little power and she’ll control a room, give her a pretty girl and she’ll have her on her knees. Blake bites her lip, swallowing a moan in her throat, eyelashes fluttering. “Yang,” she breathes out, Yang’s fingers settling low on her back. 

“Yes?” Yang asks, sultry and knowing. She isn’t even going to pay for this later - that’ll be Blake, wrists bound behind her back and Yang’s hips slamming into her ass from behind. That’s foreplay for them: not about the power itself, but how far she can expend it until it snaps.

“How early do you think we can leave the party?” Blake says, and Yang breaks and laughs. “If we show up for five minutes and leave, do you think’ll they’ll notice?” 

“Oh, no, baby,” Yang says, more endeared and dangerous. “You asked for this, and you’re going to wait for it.”

\--

Weiss shepherds them out the door a few hours later; there’s a black car waiting to take them down the street to the Roosevelt. They’re already checked in to the hotel itself, but they’re checked off a list before being allowed entry into the ballroom where the event is being held; Nora’s already there with Ren, and by the sound of it, she’s on her third cocktail. That’s to be expected. 

It’s fun. That’s all Blake has to say about it, mostly because she’s lost the ability to concentrate on anyone who isn’t Yang, process anything she’s being told that isn’t about how she’s going to be bent over. They drink and flirt in a corner of the room, hidden behind tall leather chairs and pillars. She thinks the building has a roof, thinks other people might be present, but she can’t be sure. 

Pyrrha shows up shortly after, spends more time smiling than she has been recently, even convinces Weiss to do a shot with her. They’re talking, heads tilted close and hands almost brushing. Weiss loses her edge, starts to laugh. That says enough to the rest of them watching who _know_.

\-- 

Sun, on the other hand, spends the following hour cramming as many shrimp cocktails in his mouth as he can get his hands on, taking long chugs of his margarita in between. He occasionally passes Blake and Yang in the corner, looking like they’re seconds away from swallowing each other whole, and Nora’s challenging people to arm-wrestling contests at one the far tables; it’s where he finds Neptune on his third lap around, having freshly lost to her.

“Dude,” Sun says to him, staring out at it all as if it’s his to be proud of. “We like, really _made_ it, didn’t we?” 

Neptune ruffles a hand through his hair, grin irresistible. “Yeah, man,” he says, understanding perfectly. “We really did.”

And then someone grabs his hand, nearly jerking his arm out of his socket.

Weiss pulls him aside, harried and frantic and looking around constantly with narrow, suspicious eyes. She’s so obviously agitated that _he’s_ on edge by the time she pulls him around the corner of the bar, opening her mouth. “Adam’s here,” she whispers violently, and he suddenly understands her tangible, ever-growing hysteria. “He’s _here,_ Sun. I saw him enter.” 

“What?” Sun asks, gaze immediately darting back towards the door; he finds himself searching for that distinctive red hair, the same way he used to do after Blake’d finally left. “ _How?_ ” 

“He came with some lower execs from Beacon,” Weiss says, furious with herself, the situation. “He wasn’t on the guest list - they vouched for him. He said he wanted to offer his _congratulations_.” She nearly spits the word.

“Oh, fuck,” Sun says, his skin firing hot, sweat already pooling on his lower back, his neck. “Oh, fuck, okay. Fuck. This is _bad,_ Weiss. This is seriously, seriously bad--” 

“I _know,_ ” she hisses. “But Blake doesn’t have a restraining order, so there’s nothing we can _legally_ do.” 

“Shit. Okay. Um,” Sun runs a hand across his forehead, recognizing the mounting panic. “We’ve gotta - we’ve gotta keep him away from her. We can’t let her know. Do you think - I mean, can we _manage_ that? It’s a huge party and he’s showed up pretty late--”

“I think we can,” Weiss says, thinking fast. “Blake won’t be paying attention to anyone except Yang all night, anyway”--her stare flickers over to where she knows Yang and Blake are tucked in a hidden corner of the room, talking--“so she’ll theoretically be fine. As long as we can make sure Adam doesn’t _find_ her…”

“Pyrrha and Nora are here, right?” Sun tacks on. “Adam likes being the most important person in the room. If we can surround Blake with people more important than _him,_ he might - he might leave her alone...”

But he trails off. They both know the truth. And he won’t be stopped for anything.

\--

It’s been about three hours too long by the time Yang finally suggests they go upstairs to their room, her tone so low and husky it becomes a threat instead of a voice. Walking alone at night down a poorly-lit road, ducking under a _Do Not Enter_ sign.

They’re also incredibly, stupidly drunk. 

“In my _defense,_ ” Blake slurs, “I wasn’t gonna make it if I’d been sober.” 

“Oh?”

“Yeah,” she says. She’s leaning heavily against Yang’s shoulder. “You’re so hot. I thought I was gonna die.” 

Yang smirks as the elevator dings for each floor on its way to eleven. She raises a hand, skims her fingertips against Blake’s neck like she’s thinking over closing them around it, and instead trails them over Blake’s jaw.

“You still might,” she says, and the elevator stops, opening.

Being drunk has its drawbacks, like the fact that Blake can’t get her keycard in the door and Yang’s apparently left her entire purse somewhere downstairs - her phone pings a text, and she glances at it to read, snorting into a laugh. “Oh, shit,” she says, squinting at her screen. “I left it at - at the bar, with Pyrrha. She still - she has it. I’m gonna go grab it real quick.” 

“I love that purse,” Blake says, more than a little drunkenly. Red light. “Make sure nobody steals it.” 

“Sure thing, babe,” Yang says, rubbing her back as the light finally flashes green, allowing them entry. “You go sit down.” 

“Mhm,” Blake answers, disappearing into the room and possibly stumbling into the wall from the sound following it. Yang returns to the elevator, nearly running straight into someone disembarking it. 

“Sorry, excuse me,” she says with a polite smile, stepping past him. 

“You should be a little more careful,” the man says, and it only occurs to her after the doors close that he’d looked strangely familiar.

\--

Blake kicks her heels off by the couch, takes inventory of the suite - there’s a wet bar, living room, a bedroom to the right half-covered by sliding doors; the bathroom piques her interest the most - the tub is spacious. So is the shower. She has ideas, though honestly, she’s not sure they’ll even matter; Yang’s the one with the plans, the surprises, and she’s never been wrong before. 

The knock at the door, when it comes a few minutes later, isn’t unexpected. Yang’d watched Blake try and fail to work her keycard at least ten times - she’s apparently opted to forgo that attempt entirely.

Blake ambles to the door, fingers curling around the handle as she pries it open unsteadily, other hand bracing against the frame, and blinks up--

It isn’t Yang standing there, waiting to be let in. 

It’s Adam. 

\--

Sun’s been keeping tabs on every player all night, but it only takes a single second of distraction to crumble. A blink. A laugh. His name called.

They almost make it, that’s the thing. It’s nearing two a.m., and people have slowly started filtering out. But when he turns back to the room, there are a few too many important people missing to feel like a coincidence - the corners are empty, and the red of Adam’s hair is nowhere. His heart sinks into his stomach, rises into his throat. He thinks about throwing himself up, everything inside of him, every song, every lyric, every melody. There won’t be any of that without Blake.

“Weiss.” He catches her by the door, firm and steadier than he feels, both hands wrapping around her shoulders. “He’s gone. So are Blake and Yang.” He holds her stare a second longer, not wanting to mount panic but knowing the obvious conclusion. “I don’t think we got lucky.” 

“Fuck,” she whispers immediately, so pale she looks like the origin of the hotel’s hauntings. “Fuck, Sun - _fuck,_ you lost him?” 

“I looked away for a second, I swear - he was - he’d stayed away from them all night, and suddenly--” 

She pushes past him in long, harried strides her body isn’t accustomed to, ponytail bouncing behind her as she walks. There’s a short line - probably people from the party looking for their room keys - and she bypasses all of them, slamming her palms against the counter in front of a young man who isn’t taking guests. He glances up to her, mouth already twisted in a forcedly polite smile, and she doesn’t wait for him to offer.

 

“Get security to Yang Xiao Long and Blake Belladonna’s room,” Weiss hisses frantically, pulse triggering an alarm, and his expression drops instantly. “ _Now._ ” 

\--

“Adam?” 

She hasn’t said his name in so long that it’s wrong coming out of her mouth, holds an eerie sort of timbre, like she’s shouting into a sunken ship. Like she’s raising the dead.

She’s drunk, she thinks, backing up into the living room. He follows every step, slower and more calculated. She’s hallucinating. She’s too high, too successful, and now her brain’s rebelling, making her relive her trauma to protect her. He isn’t _here._ He can’t be _here._

“My love,” he murmurs, and his disgustingly sick smile lifts at the corners with his arm, like he’s a marionette. It all rises at once, enters her line of sight. He’s holding something in his hand, and all she can think is that this is the difference between them, Adam and Yang - when she threatens death, it’s a becoming, a metaphor. 

When he threatens death, he’s pointing a gun at her, and he’s itching to pull the trigger.

“Don’t call me that,” she whispers, the only thing she can think so say. The shock of it detaches her mouth from her brain, like none of this is actually happening to her. 

“I hear they honored you at the showcase,” he says, terrifyingly casual, ignoring her. “For your... _successful_ sophomore album.” She wishes he’d tremble. Wishes he’d show just a hint of weakness, a fear like the one she feels. Then she’d know, somewhere, that he was still human. “That should’ve been _me,_ Blake. That should’ve been _me._ ”

He takes an aggressive step forward, angered by her lack of response. She jerks violently away from him, nearly trips; he seems amused by her reaction, satisfied, like he’s delighted that a part of him is still inside of her even after all this time. Instincts she’d never overcome.

“This could’ve been _our_ day,” Adam murmurs quietly, finger curling over the trigger. “ _I_ found you. _I_ signed you. _I_ loved you. _I_ made you what you are. You’d be _nothing_ without me.” 

She can’t speak, her tongue swollen and taking up all the space in her throat, every thought left to crumple and cower. If she’s still breathing, she isn’t sure how - she can’t feel her lungs expanding, can’t feel her heart pumping, can’t feel her bones underneath her skin - she’s tangible the way white noise, only in theory, numb and empty.

But he’s flesh, he’s metal, he’s _drunk_ : she can see it in the way he holds his body, the way he smiles darkly and shamelessly, how his voice irons itself sharp enough to impale. He’s drunk in her hotel room and he’s pointing a gun at her and all she can think about is Yang stumbling back up, finding her dead and bleeding on the floor - she doesn’t deserve that, doesn’t deserve the trauma - he should’ve done it elsewhere, should’ve cornered her alone, should’ve made her atone for her mistakes and left the people she loves out of it--

The door bounces off the inside wall, and Adam turns in an instant, swiveling the gun around.

“No,” Blake whispers, barely above a breath.

\--but they’re part of the problem, she understands. He’s punishing her _with_ them, not simply because of them. He wanted this.

Yang’s frozen in place, stare trained on the glinting metal, the twitching of his finger, the black hole of the barrel. She can’t seem to comprehend what she’s seeing or why, can’t reconcile the night up to the minute, a map of how they got from the beginning to the end. She expected to return to candlelight, to music. To silk and roses. To heat and skin and sweat.

Instead, she’s wandered into a nightmare, where Blake’s learning everything he’d ever told her had been true. Here’s the real reason people are all afraid of the dark. It’s always hiding things that are just itching to kill you.

“Get away from her,” Yang says, rough and rigid, and only love fuels a bravery strong enough to talk down the barrel of a gun. Her fingers curl into her palms, tight and painful.

Adam tilts his head back to her, mouth curled cruelly, eyes slits; the gun follows slowly, as if putting on a show for Yang, who only stands still like she’s cemented there, melded in place despite the fight in her words. She meets Blake’s terrified gaze over his shoulder, silently trying to convey _it’s okay, it’s okay, it’s okay._

It isn’t. Blake tastes bile in her mouth, acid scarring up her throat. It isn’t okay, and she’s not going to start lying to Yang now.

“Blake,” he says, almost conversationally, “I want you to know that this - everything that happens now, everything that will happen after - is _entirely_ your fault.” 

Without hesitation, he pulls the trigger, just as Yang makes a move for the gun.

\--

It happens so fast, she doesn’t even have the time to absorb it. 

Yang looks blankly down, slow and uncomprehending, as blood starts pouring from the hole just above her elbow; she lifts her other hand thoughtlessly, curling it over her skin, fingers staining red. Someone is screaming, and Yang teeters on her feet, falls against the wall and slides to the floor; Adam points the gun at her again, and Blake feels herself moving on instinct, crashing into him and down - it fires again, slips out of his hand - the sound deafens her ears, creates a high-pitched ringing like the bullet is bouncing around the inside of her skull; vaguely, she notices a stinging across her stomach, and there’s a pounding on their door--

She can’t grasp any of it, can only crawl to Yang, still clutching her arm and blinking slowly, too slowly - someone is screaming, it’s too loud and disorienting, she wishes they’d just _stop_ , she can’t hear herself thinking, breathing - if she’s even breathing at all - she inhales sharply, a pain stabbing in her side, and all she can comprehend is the fabric of Yang’s dress too sheer to absorb blood, leaving it dripping down her hand from beneath the sleeve - she wraps her fingers around Yang’s arm, puts pressure on the wound - blood pours over her fingers, she’s never seen so much of it in one place, where is it _coming_ from, does it ever end, does any of it _ever_ end-- 

“No,” Yang whispers, pale and clammy and staring up at something behind Blake, “no--”

She turns, finds the gun almost pressed against her forehead, and the last thing she hears is another gunshot.

\--

The broadcast plays all night, each time peppered with every further detail the reporters can get their hands on. _At least three shots have been fired inside of the Hollywood Roosevelt Hotel,_ the late-night anchor reads, the breaking news introduction in accompaniment.

The four a.m. announcement paints slightly more of a picture: _Three shots were fired early this morning inside of the Hollywood Roosevelt Hotel. We’ve been told there were injuries, but it’s unclear as to the criticality of them at this time._

And five a.m. becomes a ‘Developing Story’ segment, now complete with a traffic report and video of the scene: _Three shots were fired around two a.m. this morning inside of the Hollywood Roosevelt Hotel, where record label Beacon Records had been celebrating their twenty-year anniversary. There have been two confirmed injuries and one reported death. Hollywood Boulevard remains closed through Highland..._

Blake awakens to the sound of sirens, her heart rate spiking in her chest, and screams.

“Shit,” someone says, and something crashes against the wall. “ _Shit -_ Blake! Blake, it’s Sun, stop - just--”

There’s an intense flurry of motion surrounding her, but she hangs onto his presence like it’s a lifeboat, choking on her own tongue. It’s too heavy, too weighted down like the rest of her body. She tries to speak and it hurts, scraped raw. She speaks anyway, raising a hand and trying to grasp at his shirt; she misses by several inches. “Yang,” she whispers, her lips cracking with her voice. 

“Blake, you’re in the hospital,” Ilia says from her other side. “Yang’s okay, okay? She’s - she’s okay.” Neptune and Sun exchange a look above her. “You’re both - you’re gonna be fine.” 

She catalogues the room, blurry in the dim light. The walls are an odd off-white color. Several machines are beeping, but she can’t tell where she’s attached to them. Can’t even tell if she’s in her own skin.

“Her arm,” Blake manages, scratchy and broken, and winces; Neptune passes her a cup of water, and she’s barely able to lift her head and drink through the straw. “Why - why can’t I--”

“They...had to sedate you,” Sun says, features darkening for a moment. “You...you were in shock. You wouldn’t...wouldn’t stop... _screaming_.”

“I want to see her,” she forces out, ignores any pain. Whatever it is, she deserves it. “I want--”

“You can’t,” Sun interrupts, and she vaguely realizes he’s got a hand on her shoulder, preventing her from getting up. Not that she could fight him. Not that she could fight anyone. “She’s - she’s in surgery, Blake. Can you - Neptune, can you get a nurse? Or the doctor?” 

“Surgery,” Blake repeats numbly.

“She’s going to be fine,” Sun soothes, and it almost works. Almost. “She’s Yang Xiao Long. They aren’t going to let anything happen to her.” 

_I won’t let anything happen to you._ It’s sickeningly familiar of a phrase, grotesque and twisted and false in its sense of security. She’d promised herself. She’d made bargains. She’d said this, just give me this, this one thing and I’ll keep it safe.

“Yeah,” Blake says, sinking back against the pillows with a hollowness to her skull, bones all taking space. Let her become porous and empty and nothing. “I used to tell myself that, too.” 

_\--_

“She’ll be fine in a few days,” a voice says distantly, even though it’s coming from beside her bed. “We’ll keep her overnight to combat any potential infection, but she doesn’t have to stay longer than that. The bullet only grazed her; she was incredibly lucky.” 

“And Yang?” someone she thinks is Sun asks, but the sound is so distorted, everything hazy before her. She’s finding it difficult to focus on anything, every movement chaotic, every noise a gunshot. “Do we have - like, do we have clearance to know that?” 

“Due to the circumstances, her sister has given us permission to update you past her original condition.” The doctor, oh, of course, it’s a hospital. None of it had been a dream. “Someone will be out shortly to speak with her and her father, which you are welcome to be present for.” 

_Singer Blake Belladonna, frontwoman for alternative rock band Menagerie, and movie star Yang Xiao Long were both rushed to the hospital early this morning, though neither were said to be in critical condition. The gunman has been identified as Adam Taurus, high-ranking music executive with label White Fang, and was subsequently killed in the struggle with police._

“Turn it off.” 

She hasn’t fully opened her eyes, but the scramble of motion at her words alert her to the fact that they’re all still here - the same people, the same broadcast, the same room. The same situation. The same truth.

“Blake,” Sun says, relief evident in his tone. “Hey. Are you - are you okay?” 

Whatever they’d put her on the second time hadn’t been nearly as heavy; her head’s still a wreck and her stomach splits open. She only stares at him. He knows better.

“Okay, dumb question,” he says, appropriately abashed. “Um, so, Yang’s - she’s okay.” 

“Can I see her?” It’s out of her mouth almost before he finishes speaking. 

“No,” he says, closing in again. Ilia’s asleep in a chair, and Neptune’s just staring vacantly out the window. “She’s in the ICU for recovery. We can’t visit her yet.” 

She’ll go insane without the proof in front of her, without hearing a pulse herself. All she has is that final moment, red over her hands like her own blood clawing its way out of her veins, and Yang’s eyes rolling back into her head. “What happened to her?” 

He considers his words carefully, lips thin and pressed together as if to stop himself from prematurely letting the wrong ones loose. “The bullet...tore through her arm at an angle, made the damage worse,” Sun explains quietly. “She - um - she had to have surgery, and she lost a lot of blood, but she’s okay. They...they have to wait for her to...wake up. Before they know the extent of the damage.”

“What does that mean,” she says, a question but lifeless. He’s said everything and nothing she understands. She swears she’s miles outside of her body, staring down. 

“Um,” Sun says again, looking at the dotted pattern of her bedsheets and not her face. “She...she’ll have to go to physical therapy. Almost definitely. To be able to...fully work her arm again.”

“It hit her brachial artery,” Weiss’s voice comes from the doorway, firm and matter-of-fact. She’s hardened overnight, clay baking in a kiln, cement settling. She repeats Yang’s condition like she’s been practicing, until she’d ridden herself of tremors and uncertainty. “It was repaired with a reverse saphenous vein graft, and she had several blood transfusions. She may have permanent nerve damage, but they won’t know until she wakes up. She received immediate medical attention quickly enough that her life wasn’t in any danger.” 

It’s a joke. It’s a fucking joke.

 _Her life wasn’t in any danger,_ Weiss says, but she wasn’t in that room, and she has no fucking idea. 

\--

Blake turns away and can’t seem to absorb another word, and Weiss doesn’t know how to sit still. The night keeps coming back to haunt her. They should’ve kept a better eye on him. They should’ve alerted someone, should’ve told security. 

“You did,” Ruby says, resting a hand softly against her arm. “Weiss, you’re the reason security got there when they did. This isn’t your fault.”

Ruby, who’s miraculously remained dry-eyed and strong, tugs her into a hug, comforts _her_. Just like Yang would’ve, if their positions were reversed. She’s alive, Ruby says. That’s what matters. Tai nods beside her, and even in his stoicism, he offers her a gentle smile. 

They’re both so much like Yang it makes her sick. Replaces bile with shame. Guilt becomes the acid in her stomach.

She finds Sun out in the hallway, sitting with one shoe against the seat, chin resting on his propped-up knee.

“How are you doing?” Weiss asks him quietly, taking the seat next to him. He looks tired, just like all of them, bags under his eyes, bloodshot. He, at least, understands.

“I dunno,” he answers honestly and his tone sounds like he’s deserting himself. “I just keep thinking that we - we should’ve done more, you know? We should’ve - just - done _more._ ” 

Sun lifts his other leg up, pressing his forehead against his knees, and Weiss rests her head against his shoulder. She looks down the hall to Blake’s room, thinks of Yang in the ICU, tries desperately to find a way to bring them back together. Knock down a few walls, rearrange the floorplan. But she knows she can’t.

“I know,” she says, and it’s the first time he’s ever heard grief make home of her voice. “I know.”

\--

Blake talks to her mom on the phone, though has no recollection of anything she says. She hands the phone to the doctor, who explains what she’s already been told twenty times to varying degrees of comprehension. “It’s just like a bad burn,” the doctor tells her mother, scribbling something on a pad. “It’s not deep enough for a flesh wound, but the nerves have been severely disrupted, though that pain will dull in a few days. She was very lucky, and she’ll be completely fine.”

She thinks she makes out relief on the other end, and she isn’t sure why. She can’t understand why everyone’s saying _you’ll heal_ as if it’s synonymous with _you will find your way to yourself again._

They aren’t the same thing. They aren’t even close.

\--

It’s Weiss who arranges it. She may cling to truth for comfort, but she doesn’t abandon her empathy in order to spare herself the painful emotion of it.

Visiting hours are almost over. Blake’s staying one more night in case of infection, though the risk is apparently low. The band take turns leaving, one at a time, like they’ve scheduled shifts. She’s never alone - not, at least, until Weiss snaps and sends them all for dinner in the cafeteria at the same time.

“Let her have a _moment,_ ” she snarls, and none of them dare to argue with her ferocity.

But she doesn’t go with them. She waits, watches them shuffle down the hall, and then she seems to be speaking to someone outside - it’s hard to see through the door’s small window - until it opens wider, and a nurse squeaks a wheelchair in, apparently waiting for a decision to be made.

“You aren’t allowed to walk unless it’s part of your rehabilitation,” Weiss says softly, and for once the silver of her becomes something that isn’t hard, sharp-edged, metal. For once, she’s finally closer to the moon. “Do you want to go see her?” 

“Yes,” Blake says immediately. She thought she _knew_ want, thought she understood its teeth and power, like the imposing force of a black hole. Thought she knew what it was like to need something so desperately she could’ve died of it. 

She’d been wrong. It’s nothing in comparison to this: someone you love almost dying in front of you, only to be living a few rooms away. 

“She’s still out - she had a weird reaction to the anesthesia, and she lost a lot of blood. Nothing to worry about, but she’ll be...unconscious a little longer than normal.” 

Blake tries to swallow, her throat full and hard and uncomfortable, almost chokes; “Okay,” she whispers, shifting off the bed. 

She’s wheeled down a wing, and Yang’s room is suspiciously empty; Ruby isn’t even out in the hall, lingering with Tai. Maybe this is Weiss’s version of atonement.

The nurse opens the door to Yang’s room, helps to wheel her in, and then backs out.

Yang’s motionless, heart monitor beeping steadily, IV taped to the back of her hand rather than the crook of her arm, which is heavily taped and bandaged. She’s breathing peacefully, her lips dry, hair tangled behind her. She isn’t pretty; she isn’t even remotely close. There’s nothing beautiful about someone you love in a hospital bed.

Blake steps out of the chair, up to her bedside, catalogues every brutal, vivid change. She raises a hand and brushes it across Yang’s cheekbone, the dark bags like bruises under her eyes, thumbs her lips, dry and cracked. She slowly bends down, despite the pain shooting through her stomach, and buries her face in the crook of Yang’s neck, the only place that used to remind her of safety. But there are no arms to hold her together, and she’s lost too much of herself to hold back.

“I’m sorry,” she whispers brokenly against Yang’s ear, simultaneously hoping she can hear her and hoping she can’t. “I’m so, so sorry.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> um im sorry but also i cant write sad endings so like its fine eventually lol. also huge thank you to qualiteablogger for helping me with the medical aspect for this + the next chapter!


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> we have reached the end! i highly, HIGHLY suggest that you listen to songs that are mentioned in this chapter for the maximum impact, as they play a pretty significant role.
> 
> for those of you with spotify, the angst playlist is [here](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/5886ReHOVO4Wo3LpDPupSb?si=9dZBaYYwSMqlPQ9O-0GKIg), and the regular playlist is [here.](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/2VtkW3gIMkWYoY6BW81Qkf?si=ogZkVzpoSbCDFRGoQ7mXCw)

Blake returns to her room, to her bed, to the off-white color of her hospital room walls. She doesn’t say anything to Weiss at all, and Weiss doesn’t ask.

\--

Being away from Blake in the state she’s currently in apparently gives Sun anxiety, because only twenty more minutes pass before he returns, unpeeled banana in his hand. He meets Weiss’s stare as if to say, _yeah, can’t stomach anything else with the guilt keeping me full_ , and she understands. 

It’s not that they’re never going to tell her; it’s that Weiss wishes they could plan _when._ When’s the moment to tell someone you knew they were in danger and you didn’t do enough - is it when they’re away from the beeping machines and syringes, when the pain’s no longer dulled and they’re experiencing everything at once? Is it when they’re drugged and tired and _shot,_ and the one they love is down the hallway, breathing alone? Is it--

“Blake,” Sun starts suddenly, in a panicked tone that almost makes her twitch, too reminiscent of the previous night. He licks his lips, but his tongue’s so dry it doesn’t seem to help. “We knew.”

Blake barely reacts; she blinks once, slowly, her stare never wavering from the back of her own hand. “Knew?” she repeats, flat and dismissive. 

“We knew that Adam was there last night,” he continues nervously, all of his muscles tense and held. “We didn’t tell you because - we were keeping an eye on him, and we didn’t - we didn’t want you to panic, and we were afraid he’d confront you in public, but we should’ve--”

“It doesn’t matter,” Blake interrupts, lifeless like it takes all of her strength to even utter the words. He falters, pattering off, clearly not expecting the response. “It wouldn’t have made a difference.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Weiss asks, a little more sharply than she intends. Her guilt belongs to her, and she’s been possessive of the things that are _hers_ since she was disowned by her family. Now that it’s out there, she deserves to carry it. “We knew he was angry, Blake. We could’ve--”

“I knew he was angry, too,” Blake says bitterly, cutting off her explanations. She leaves her fingers spread, her shoulders too heavy for her neck and sinking. It’s unmistakable, unrelenting defeat. “I _knew_ what he’d be like when he found out. I was with him for _years_ , and I - it just - doesn’t matter.” She doesn’t even allow them room for blame. “It wouldn’t have made a difference.”

Weiss bites the inside of her lip, pain taking the place of defiance. She wants to believe in a kinder world. Wants to believe that if only a mistake weren’t made, they’d have spent the night in their hotel room together, unscarred and in love. “You’re wrong,” she says quietly, and even that is a lie. “You’re - you’re wrong.” 

Blake smiles humorlessly, and it’s just one more thing that makes Weiss sick to her stomach. “I’m not,” she says. “If it hadn’t been last night, it would’ve been eventually.” 

Hot tears sting in Weiss’s eyes, sharp like needlepoint. She’s being sewn into misery, into acceptance. Because it isn’t an argument. They’d all talked to the police, given statements, heard the night laid out from Adam’s perspective like he’d been on a schedule. 

And It’s a truth. 

Adam never would’ve been stopped. Not for long, and never for good. Not until his body bled itself dry into the earth.

\--

She asks to be left alone, and it’s only a request at all because she can’t muster up the strength for a demand.

Neptune and Ilia rejoin them in the floor’s lobby, chairs squeaking under their weight. Ruby’s probably back at Yang’s bedside, sleeping with her head in her arms, folded against the mattress. It’s a waiting game. None of them are people who are used to long periods of stagnancy. 

Finally, Weiss drops back into her instincts. “We should talk about the tour.” 

“The tour,” Ilia repeats, her gaze far-off. It sounds like another world, another time. “What about it?” 

“We’ll have to push the dates,” Weiss says. 

“Whatever.” It’s the most Neptune’s spoken all day. He’s crushing an empty styrofoam cup in his hand, seeing how much pressure he can put on it before it breaks into pieces. 

None of them are really listening to her, but she can’t stop. “I’ll get in touch with the road manager. It’ll be fine.” 

There’s no silence in a hospital, so the tension can’t stretch like it needs to, can’t create its own flatline. There’s constant movement, murmuring, beeping. She feels it anyway, like rubber bands on a watermelon. 

And then Ilia says, “I can’t decide if you’re optimistic for thinking so, or just plain stupid.” 

\--

She’s still dreaming when she wakes up. 

It’s a hazy, heavy kind of awakening: her brain swims under the pressure of restoring reality when it can’t, when it lacks the context between a bullet and a blackout and everything after. She moves her eyelids, but it’s like sifting sand under ocean, slipping away too fast to prove that it was ever even there - she’s in a room with water running down the walls, light glinting over the current - maybe she’s in a boat, drifting. Maybe she’s simply been carried away. 

“The water,” she tries to say, but the words release mumbled, gossamer-like. 

Someone’s head shoots up. “Yang?” 

Oh, that’s her. She blinks again, tries to open her eyes a little wider; her throat feels torn and burned-out, the way bulbs break underneath their shades. She manages to grunt, and the person immediately reaches for a cup, holds the straw to her lips. 

“Drink,” the person says, focuses into view. 

“Ruby,” she says, surprised, sound scratching every syllable.

Ruby nudges the cup more impatiently. “Drink,” she repeats, and Yang parts her lips, swallows room-temperature water until it doesn’t hurt going down.

“What happened?” she asks, still quiet and strained, but it’s hard for the realization and recognition to dawn any faster. Her mind’s rebelling, wants to put it away, wants to bring that river back. She can still barely think, barely feel, barely breathe. Her ears are ringing. “Where - Ruby, where’s--”

“Blake’s okay,” she intercepts the question carefully. “She’s - she’s down the hall, in her own room. She’s okay. And that - the man who - he’s dead.” 

“Dead,” Yang echoes vaguely, mouth full of wool. Everything about her body is too heavy for her to lift. “Blake’s okay.” 

“Yeah.” Ruby’s nervousness is too subtle for Yang’s drugged brain to discern, and the knowledge that she sits with is enough for now. “I’m going to get the nurse.”

Yang doesn’t stay awake long enough to see her return.

\--

Sun’s the one who stays overnight. He doesn’t talk to her, just flips the TV to _Nick at Nite_ and watches old episodes of _Friends._ The studio audience laughter registers as just another piece of hospital equipment, but she thinks it makes him feel less alone. She allows that. 

Ruby sneaks in long after he’s fallen asleep. She hovers in the doorway, chewing on her lip. 

“I love you,” she finally says, almost terrified to admit it, as if she knows Blake’s about to break her heart. Break her sister’s.

The studio audience laughs in the pause between them.

“I’m sorry,” Blake manages, throat locking around the words. They’re not enough and they never will be. She thinks of others, thinks of saying _give this heart back to her, tell her I lost my way._ Thinks of her bloody and bleeding and beautiful, not even the star of her own murder. 

She doesn’t say any of it, and Ruby slips back into the hall, the door shutting behind her. Blake wishes she could’ve slammed it. 

A nurse checks on her every few hours; her stomach stings, burns brilliantly like the bullet’s still there, tearing through her skin. She tightens her jaw and doesn’t complain, like she deserves it. 

She thinks the nurse picks up on it - maybe a lot of patients feel the need to bear the weight of their pain as if guilt can be made tangible - because her two a.m. round ends with an I.V. drip check and Blake’s eyes suddenly too heavy to keep open, her stomach numbing until she feels nothing at all.

\--

Weiss returns in the morning, and this time she’s made plans. 

She hasn’t slept, but it’d be hard for anyone who didn’t know her to tell - her hair’s in a careful ponytail, brushed away from her face, and she’s wearing a blouse so wrinkle-free Blake wouldn’t be surprised if she’d ironed it first. 

She isn’t chipper, isn’t cheerful, but she’s persistent. She has a job to do. She starts off, “Now, the tour--” and this is one of those conversations she expects to be agreed to without further discussion. Blake’s just staring out the window, as if she can’t believe the rest of the world is still out there, thriving.

So it’s shocking when she interrupts Weiss, barely three words in. “Don’t cancel it,” she says emotionlessly, voice hollow and eerie; she’s turned the now-empty space inside of herself into a cave. “We’ll do it.” 

That’s a silence that rings out, the length of its own song. Even Sun snaps his gaze to her, baffled by the response. “We - uh, what?” 

“Excuse me?” Weiss says, incredulously polite, blinking as if she’d merely mishead.

“Blake,” Sun starts uncomfortably, “we can’t go on tour _now_ \--” 

“Why can’t we?” Blake says, still gazing vacantly out the window. “I’m fine.”

“We’re supposed to leave in a _few days,_ ” Sun points out, aghast and slightly disturbed. He’d known she wasn’t okay, but he hadn’t known it’d gone so far past the point of okay that she’d come full circle and convinced herself she was. “There’s no _way_ we can go on tour with you like this - with _Yang_ \--” 

She visibly flinches at the name, and it’s the most reaction they’ve seen since she’d woken up the day previously, bandage over her stomach and her eye sockets like bruises. “I _said,_ I’m _fine,_ ” she repeats, harder. “The _doctor_ said I’m fine. So, I’m fine.” 

“This is _ridiculous,_ ” Weiss hisses, who isn’t the type to put up with unwarranted irrationality. “I’ve already been in contact with the road manager; we can work out a shift in dates, and then--” 

“Weiss,” Blake starts lowly, finally meeting her stare, and the blankness of her eyes leaves a sinister chill crawling its way up Weiss’s spine, “if you cancel this tour - if you reschedule any part of it - I swear to God I’ll fire you.” 

Weiss only stands there, unnerved and unmoving; they’ve challenged each other before, but never over something so obviously black and white, so based in irrefutable logic and reason. Not over something like _you’ve been shot_ and _what’s your point._

To Weiss, it’s almost scarier than when she’d seen that flash of red hair, Adam walking into the hotel.

“Blake,” she says, fingers curling into her palms, manicured nails creating crescent moons. _Blake,_ she says, but that’s never a name that meant much coming from her.

 _Blake,_ Yang could’ve said, and Weiss knows that’d be the end. 

But Yang can’t even speak at the moment, let alone allow Blake to crawl into her lap and cry, and that’s the problem summed up in a single, devastating sentence. 

“I’m checking out,” Blake says, not like her mind’s made up, just like it’s long gone. “I don’t need to be here anymore.”

The double meaning isn’t lost on anyone in the room, and she’s never been more wrong. Sun still hasn’t spoken, observing her like something swept through and replaced her when he wasn’t looking. Something cold and barren and brutally unfeeling. 

“She woke up last night, you know,” Weiss says carefully, and for once, she doesn’t even know her own angle. Maybe she’s testing the waters, searching for cracks just to prove they’re there, and can be accessed. “Briefly, Ruby said, but she was awake. She asked about you.” 

Her lower lip quivers, and for a single blink Sun swears he sees her eyes shine in the morning sunlight. 

“Can you close the blinds?” is all she whispers, like she hadn’t heard Weiss at all.

\--

There are last-ditch efforts made, full-hearted attempts. She checks out of the hospital the second the doctor gives her the okay after writing her a prescription for antibiotics and a heavier painkiller she barely remembers the name of, and then she’s changing into clothes Ilia’d picked up from her apartment, spare shirts and shorts that hadn’t migrated to Yang’s house. 

Someone knocks on the door; the wound on her stomach pulls with every movement. She says, “Fine,” because she forgets what she’s supposed to say. 

She thinks it’s Weiss, or Sun, or Ilia, or a nurse; the same people who’ve been hovering every minute since the incident. She thinks it’s somebody who can help her leave.

Until it isn’t. “Blake,” Ruby says, the only person in the world beside her sister who stands a chance against the walls Blake’s built overnight. She’s quiet in her plea, in her posture. “Please don’t do this.” 

She holds onto her words like they’re anchors. She holds onto that hotel room like a gravesite. She’s been selfish enough. Blake says, “She doesn’t deserve this,” and Ruby opens her mouth to interrupt but she isn’t fast enough. “She never did. She was fine before me. She was _fine._ ”

“She was better with you,” Ruby argues, weak to her own ears, and Blake’s mirthless smile is both eerie and empty. “You _know_ she was--”

“Key word,” Blake says, and she never even turns around. “‘Was.’”

\--

When Yang wakes up again, she isn’t alone. Not even close. But she might as well be, when it becomes obvious who’s missing.

She’s still groggy, but she’s alert, aware. She recognizes the walls for what they are, knows she’s in a hospital bed, but the memories hit in odd lurches, as if they’re the waves hitting the boat of her drug-induced haze. She’d been drunk when she’d opened that door, when she’d looked down the barrel of a gun. It’s all flashes from far away, like it isn’t even happening to her: she sees herself standing still, Adam between them. Sees Blake shaking her head _no._ Hears the shot, tearing through flesh and muscle and bone - hears it over and over and over and over and overandoverandover--

“Yang,” Ruby breathes out, relief creating her a focal point, and she blinks herself out of a pool of her own blood. Tai sits up immediately, elbow slipping off the arm of the chair.

“Ruby,” she says, throat still raw, and the water’s immediately lifted to her lips again. She drinks until it reminds her too much of drowning. “Dad.” 

“How are you feeling?” Ruby squeaks out anxiously. She has marks on her cheeks like she’s been clutching her face in her hands. “Are you - are you in a lot of pain, or--”

“Blake,” Yang says, because Ruby should know better, should know that whatever she’s feeling and whatever damage she’s done is meaningless as long as Blake’s alive. Should know that nothing else compares in its importance. “Is she okay?” 

“She’s okay,” Ruby says, and pauses, parting her lips again as if to continue but can’t. Nothing else passes between them before the nurse comes in, whom Tai had buzzed in.

It’s a simple way to avoid the unavoidable: the nurse has a job to do, asks Yang some arbitrary questions; name, age, birthday - do you know who this is? Do you know where you are? Do you--

“Yes,” Yang finally interrupts before the interrogation can be finished. “I know everything. I’m actually clairvoyant.” The joke’s weak, mirroring the state her body’s in, but it drags a reluctant smile out of the nurse regardless until the doctor strolls in. 

“Ms. Xiao Long.” The woman doesn’t extend an arm, but keeps her grin wide. She takes a moment to look over a clipboard in her hands. “It’s a pleasure to see you awake.” She doesn’t wait for a response, steps up to Yang’s bedside, eyes on her damaged arm. “How are you feeling?”

“Like someone shot me,” she says bluntly, partly before she realizes it even comes out of her own mouth. There’s a low-hanging haze to her brain, like coating every thought in a fog. The doctor presses on without hesitation, as if she’s used to that kind of brusque, rude response. 

She probably is, Yang thinks. People in pain probably find it harder to be polite.

“Well, someone did,” the doctor says, and at once she’s shifted herself to calm in the face of seriousness, and sets down Yang’s chart to reach for her hand. “The bullet tore your brachial artery, which we successfully repaired with a saphenous vein graft - you lost a lot of blood, and it required quite a few blood transfusions. Now that you’re awake, I’d like to do a movement and sensation test to rule out any paralysis or sensory loss. Tell me if you can feel the pressure of my fingers, okay?” 

It doesn’t take too long - she touches various parts of Yang’s hand, her wrist, up the inside of her arm; Yang fortunately feels it all, every light brush and pathway - and then she tests the strength of Yang’s grip, asks her to squeeze her hand just to make sure the muscles work, to bend and straighten. She seems pleased by the end of it, and Ruby’s beaming; Tai looks like he’d spent the entire exam ready to faint.

“You suffered a very severe injury,” the doctor says, and now there’s compassion in her victory. She’s done her job, and done it well. “It’s going to require a lot of time and therapy to recover from, but you are ultimately very lucky that, at this time, there does not appear to be any long-term deficits. Can you rate your pain on a scale of one to ten for me, with ten being the worst?”

Her arm burns, throbs, aches. She’s exhausted and she can feel blood pooling in her body, can feel it choking itself in the creases of her wrists, the pale lines of her throat. Can feel her pulse swallowing itself alive. “Seven,” she says, but she’s not sure of her own metric. 

“How long does she have to stay?” Tai asks. “When can we take her home?”

“Not long,” the doctor says, picking Yang’s chart back up. “She’ll be on long-term antibiotic therapy, and her wound requires packing that will be need to be regularly changed - no stitches; the wound will heal from the inside out. We’ll teach you how to dress it, unless you’d prefer to hire a home health nurse. If you’d like to talk in the hallway, Mr. Xiao Long, we can leave your daughter to rest…” 

He nods, following her out the door; it’s less than a second later that a knock comes and Weiss’s eyes peek through the window at them. She’s not wearing heels, and Yang can only see half her face; Sun appears behind her, mouth moving. Ruby jumps to her feet like she’s been waiting for something to do, her energy palpable in her steps to let them in. 

_Don’t,_ Yang almost whispers, demands, screams. Dread gnaws on the inside of her stomach, cuts right through the muscle, dissolves her in acid. _Don’t let them in._

She’s in a hospital room and so is Blake; that’s what she wants to believe. That Blake’s down the hall, or a wing over, or separated by a wall. That she’s been waiting, asking every minute to visit. That she’d tried to get them to share a room, share a bed, share blood and skin and bone. That she’s okay in the most important sense of the phrase, and the rest can come with time.

Yang almost expects it, that’s the thing - she thinks it so _hard_ that for a split, horrible second, she convinces herself that Blake is just behind them, that she’ll shove her way in and bury her face in Yang’s hair and murmur apologies that Yang can brush away, can say _it’s okay, I’m okay and you’re okay, and we’re okay together._

Ruby steps back to let Weiss in, Sun following, and line ends there. Yang’s pain jumps to a ten.

\--

He’s never seen her look so human, that’s the first thing he thinks upon walking through the door. 

Yang’s always been so _untouchable_ to him, so powerful and prestigious - glamorous on a red carpet, unearthly in a movie - that to see her _here,_ lying in a bed with her skin pale and her hair in knots...it’s like making an example of a god. Her arm is heavily bandaged, and there’s an IV taped to the back of her hand. Lips cracked. Eyes sunken in. Begging him _no._

She knows. Sun doesn’t know how, or why, or what happened in that hotel room, but she knows what they’re about to tell her.

He doesn’t draw it out like the revelation at the end of a reality show, doesn’t make her wait for it. Ripping off the bandaid over a bullet hole. 

“Blake’s okay,” Sun says gently, finding no humane, painless way to explain it, “but she isn’t coming.” 

Once faced with the information, she seems to process it slowly, staring at him with an intensity struggling just beneath the surface - like she isn’t yet awake enough, alive enough to comprehend it and she’s fighting for clarity anyway. She doesn’t speak, but her eyes flicker, up and to the left and down again, focusing on her own arm, on the drip of the IV. Her fingers on her good hand curl against the sheets. It feels like hours Sun stands there waiting for acknowledgement over something she doesn’t want to accept until she’s forced to.

At last, she says quietly, “Okay,” and Weiss shifts forward like she wants to scream, like she wants to grab Yang’s shoulders and shake her; _no,_ Sun can feel from her, _no, it’s not okay._ He shoots her a glance; her lips are thin, eyes hard and narrow. She’s trying to find her place in the aftermath, where to lie her loyalty like flowers at a gravestone.

“Okay?” she asks instead, tone one of polite incredulity rather than outrage. 

Yang finally meets her eyes, and she doesn’t breathe, doesn’t blink, doesn’t cry. “Okay,” she repeats. “I understand.” 

Weiss visibly tenses, and Sun actually puts a hand on her shoulder, stopping her from stepping forward. He can feel the hum of her skin, the way she seethes and broils inside of the anger and regret and resentment. 

She can’t blame herself. And she can’t blame Yang. But she needs to blame _somebody._ “What?” she says lowly. “ _What_ do you understand?” 

Yang turns, gaze falling out the window, and doesn’t respond at all.

\-- 

Sun is the one who visits her; like a representative, he jokes, but Yang reconciles the underlying meaning. He doesn’t agree with Blake, and he’s Yang’s friend, too. He’s not like Weiss that way: it’s about loyalty without sides.

She doesn’t talk to him much, but that’s the nice thing about him; it doesn’t deter him or bother him at all. He’ll sit beside her and watch shitty TV and eat hospital pudding. He’ll talk about his childhood and his family and his friends, share anecdotes of all the crazy antics he used to get up to and sometimes still does. He’ll read her tweets he deems funny enough, article headlines filled with the fakest rumors he can find. He does this for hours, most of the time staying until visiting hours are over - they’d practiced for the tour long before this, and they’re taking the time until they leave to recover. He has nowhere else to be.

Yang reconciles the underlying meaning of that, too. Blake’s hiding herself away from him. From all of them.

Ruby pulls Sun aside in the hallway and says softly, “Thanks.” 

He blinks. “For what?” 

“For being here for her when Blake can’t be,” Ruby says, and to Sun’s surprise, she doesn’t seem upset, only remorseful and disappointed. “I don’t really know what happened or what she’s thinking, but if Yang isn’t angry at her, I’m not gonna be, either. It’s not my place. But - I can tell that she’s...grateful, that you’ve been here.” 

Sun rubs the back of his head. “It’s...nothing,” he says with difficulty, because it’s not a compliment he wants to receive. “I - I love Yang. And I don’t know what’s going on in Blake’s head either, but - I wanna be there for _both_ of them, you know?” 

“Yeah,” Ruby says morosely, throwing another look towards Yang’s room, and then she’s gone, following Tai down the hallway to the cafeteria. 

Sun takes a moment to collect himself, glancing through the window of her door, and she’s sitting up, staring at her phone, and for once she isn’t acting: her expression is open, and the grief written across it is almost debilitating in its itself, aching like the pain in her arm is in her heart - yet somehow she’s still terribly, overwhelmingly soft. 

She’s staring at Blake, he knows. He takes his hand off the doorknob and looks away. Her sunflowers are dying.

\--

She’s released from the hospital. She doesn’t remember it at all, doesn’t remember getting in the car or the drive home or pulling into her driveway. Ruby and Tai both know how to pack her wound, prepared for the long and grueling recovery. She has a preliminary meeting with a physical therapist scheduled. All things taken care of for her.

“We had to...block you from having visitors,” Ruby confesses, helping her unlock the door of their house. “Too many people wanted to see you - Pyrrha, Nora, Ren, Nebula, Coco, Velvet, fans who knew your location…”

It’s not a revelation that requires a response, and so she stays silent. Ruby helps her up the stairs, but there’s a line she’s afraid of crossing as they draw closer to Yang’s bedroom - Blake’s bedroom, too, it may as well have been - as if she’s afraid of what she’ll find when they get there. Will it be ripped apart and empty, will it be pristine and perfect like Blake’s never even touched it, will it--

Yang opens the door, and she doesn’t take another step.

It’s both. 

Some of her drawers are open and obviously rummaged through, but parts of the room are visions of exactly how they’d left it before leaving for the party - there’s a couple discarded dresses strewn across the unmade bed, and her curling iron’s still sitting on the sink. One of Blake’s makeup bags is still resting on top of the dresser. Half her clothes are still hanging in the closet.

It’s like she’d ghosted through the room, grabbing whatever randomly caught her eye. Like she’d packed for a long, long vacation. Yang doesn’t know what’s worse.

To anyone else, it’d look as if Blake planned on coming back.

To Yang, it looks more like Blake’s just given up.

\--

She’s not her movies. She sleeps on Blake’s side of the bed and drowns in it.

\--

Her days pass by in long periods of blackout - almost like she’s drunk. She can’t retain time, can’t discern between yesterday and today and tomorrow. All her texts go unanswered. Pyrrha and Nora stop by at some point, bringing ten cartons of ice-cream between them and chatting purposefully while stacking them in her freezer. She thinks they throw their arms around her, thinks Pyrrha might’ve shed a tear. She can’t remember. She hopes she’d said something nice, comforting, but with Blake as the elephant in the room - no, no, something bigger, something wide and made of shadow, something without a body that shivers in the corners and takes up space - she doubts it’d have meant much anyway. They’d have been able to see through her, straight to the truth. 

Sun stops by the day they’re due to leave for the tour, and pulls her into a hug, his arms gentle and encompassing. “I’ll take care of her,” he murmurs into her ear, and they’re out of time for dancing around the subject. “I don’t know what happened that night, but I know this isn’t what she wants. I’ll take care of her, okay?”

“Okay,” Yang says, her eyes heavy and damp, and suddenly all she remembers is the ocean pouring down the walls of her hospital room. “I’m not giving up on her.”

He leans back, brushes her hair away from her cheeks. “You love her,” he says, smiling sadly.

“More than you know,” she whispers, clutching at his wrists. The power of her left arm is weak, and her fingers tremble. “More than anybody does.”

\--

Sun meets them at the bus with his bags. He can’t stop thinking about her voice, so raw he swore it’d bled on him, and the glaring unsteadiness of her hand. The bandages covering her upper arm, the crease of her elbow. The deep circles underneath her eyes, hair in a messy bun.

She’d looked awful, but she’s nothing in comparison to Blake. 

He almost can’t tear his gaze away from her, horrified, revolted - there’s a violent recollection here, her bones sharp underneath her skin, hunched into herself, arms constantly crossed, eyes always hollow and empty in their sockets. A skeleton fighting for a life outside of a body, wanting to be visible. A woman at war with herself and losing.

“What?” she asks, but she’s monotonous and blank.

“You look like you used to,” Sun says flatly, stare falling to the pavement. He’d rather trace the edges of her shadow than her skin. “After Adam.” 

“What?” she says again, too taken aback to mute her reaction. The name alone forces a flinch, like the echo of him alone has become the gun, become the bullet.

It doesn’t affect him in the slightest. “You used to walk around like that, holding yourself together,” he says, dully reciting the memories coming to mind. “Like a ghost. You were so thin. Some days I was afraid you weren’t gonna wake up, because I didn’t think you wanted to.” His voice drops, hanging on a cliff’s edge by the tips of its fingers. “Some days you looked like you hurt, just being alive.” 

“Stop,” she says, so quiet it’s almost a whisper. Her bottom lip trembles. “Please. Stop.”

They get on without another word, and she curls up into her bunk, drawing the curtain. Ilia cracks open a beer at the kitchen table and sits in silence, Neptune joining her after a moment of consideration. 

Sun spreads out on the couch, closes his eyes, imagines none of them are here at all. Imagines they’re a week and a half ago, arguing playfully about songs for the showcase, Yang’s arm wrapped around Blake’s waist, listening with a smile.

\--

Yang’s preliminary PT appointment goes as well as it possibly can.

There’s a lot left to work with, the trainer says. Her surgeons had done an excellent job, and barring any radically unexpected complications, there’s no reason she shouldn’t make nearly a full recovery, or get at least so close nobody’d ever be able to tell otherwise. Her muscles are weak, but they’ll heal. Her range of motion ultimately won’t be impacted. He teaches her basic stretches to do every day, gives her a simple schedule to work with until she’s ready for more strenuous activity.

It’s a great diagnosis. She just has to put in the work, he says purposefully, holding direct eye contact as he straightens and bends her arm. She has to find the will for it, he says, like he knows that’ll be the hardest part. Like he knows she wakes up alone in the morning after a night of Adam’s gun pressed against Blake’s forehead, sinking into her skin, hands covered in blood that isn’t hers.

She stares at his own scar, raised and jagged at the edges. 

Maybe he does.

\--

Backstage, Blake and Ilia share a dressing room, just like they always do. Normally it’s filled with idle conversation, dry remarks, laughter. Not tonight. Tonight it’s Blake hunched over on the couch, staring at her phone with her heart breaking in her veins. With her face so exposed she might as well put herself on display at an art museum, inviting critics and interpretations. _Icarus,_ one calls her. _Self-fulfilling prophecy,_ says another.

Ilia doesn’t know what to do with it, doesn’t know how to say _talk to me, please, talk to me._

“Blake,” she says instead. 

“I’m coming,” Blake responds, far off and distant. 

“Are you?” Ilia asks quietly. “Or are you running away?” 

There’s only silence left between them, and never any answers. Ilia leaves her there, closes the door gently, just as Blake expects her to. They’re long past the fear of pushing her, but they’re deadly terrified of the shatter if she falls too far.

She swipes her thumb up the screen.

_i miss you_  
_i know why you left but you’re wrong_  
_this house is too big without you and too empty and i sleep where you slept and i wish you were here_  
_you should have let me say goodbye_  
_it wasn’t your fault_  
_blake it wasn’t your fault_  


She’s read every message a hundred times. And a hundred times she’s come within an inch of breaking. 

Paragraphs typed out and deleted, poetry spilling from her fingers like wine. Lyrics and lyrics and lyrics and lyrics. Apologies that never make it into waterfalls. _I love you,_ she swears she writes by the thousands. _I love you even though I don’t deserve to. I love you. I love you. I love you i love you i love youiloveyouiloveyou--_

She repeats it over and over. Some nights it’s the only thing that keeps her alive.

She makes it to the stage just before lights; they all look at her, her poise, her composure, her desperation. And maybe - just maybe - they realize how badly she needs this.

\--

The first night of Blake’s tour, Yang watches the videos. She follows the Instagram and Twitter tags, searches YouTube, and she isn’t at all prepared for what she sees, what she hears. 

It’s unbelievably incredible. 

Yang’s enraptured, glued to her screen, earphones in and the volume blasting. She’s never heard Blake sound so _good_ \- each note is rough and poignant and beautiful, filled with emotion so intense it’s like she’s singing because it’s her only choice - as if without it, it’d have nowhere else to go and overflow. She puts on the act well enough, asks the city how they’re doing, tells them she’s okay, thanks them for their support. But Yang finds every crack, and picks it apart. 

_I’m okay,_ her voice stumbles over, becoming flatter and forced. Not a single smile is real. And in every high-definition photo that gets uploaded, the more ghost-like she appears, as if she’s attempting to will herself away. Off of the stage, out of reality. Into another existence.

Blake still loves her. Blake loves her more than she’s ever loved anything. And it makes her that much more stubborn in her belief that what she’s doing is right.

\--

Until Blake spirals further. Until she winds her way into habits only meant to harm.

It starts because they’re at a bar after the show; she’s three drinks in and all she can see in her glass is blood instead of whiskey. Adam pointing the gun at Yang and firing. His words, crafted carefully cruel and bitter-sharp. Shooting with his mouth like its own weapon. 

“Can I buy you a drink?” a man asks, sliding up to her side, and he is nothing like either of them. Handsome, brunette. Green eyes. Away, away, away. As far away as she can get. Out of Los Angeles and its glittering skyline, out of its traffic-jammed highways and neon-struck streets, out of its burning hot sand and boundless frothing ocean. Past the palm trees and the palisades, the boardwalks and the billboards, the crescendo of the Hills and the collapse of the Valley.

And Yang. Yang, who inhabits every inch of that city like it was built for her.

“Sure,” she says, before she even realizes she says it. 

She doesn’t do anything. Lets him talk at her while she sips her whiskey, her mind idling like a car about to race. Waiting for a flag. A green light. A flash of blonde hair and a smile that takes over movie theatres. She doesn’t notice the movement of his hand until it’s too late, when it presses against her lower back.

“Do you want to get out of here?” he asks, and she freezes, goes wide-eyed and blank. 

There’s a pause - he waits for her answer like he thinks there’s a possibility of a _yes_ \- and then she’s stumbling away from him, back of her hand pressed to her mouth.

“I think I’m going to be sick,” she gasps out, before she leaves him at the bar. She passes straight by Sun, who only stares and doesn’t follow. Like he’d wanted to see how far she’d go. 

\--

Back in her hotel room, she throws up in the shower and then scrubs her body raw. She leaves only the skin underneath, skin Yang has touched and nobody else. Ilia finds her curled up on the floor in a robe, sighs and carries her into bed.

“Blake,” she murmurs in the quiet dark, “I love you, but sometimes all you do is make the wrong choices.”

\--

 **Sarah** @ _whenigetbackhome_ · 1h  
I’m pretty sure Blake Belladonna is chatting some guy up in this bar…  


**jenna** @ _a1onetogeth3r_ · 1h  
_Replying to @whenigetbackhome_  
uh what? like she’s actively hitting on some guy, or-?

 **Sarah** @ _whenigetbackhome_ · 1h  
**__** _Replying to @a1onetogeth3r_  
No, I guess not….he’s kind of talking a lot at her and she’s just drinking. 

**Sarah** @ _whenigetbackhome_ · 1h  
**__** _Replying to @a1onetogeth3r_  
Nvm. He put his hand on her back and she like, ran away from him.  


**jenna** @ _a1onetogeth3r_ · 1h  
_Replying to @whenigetbackhome_  
weird. maybe she was just getting hit on and didn’t know how to get away

 **Sarah** @ _whenigetbackhome_ · 1h  
**__** _Replying to @a1onetogeth3r_  
Yeah, guess so.

\--

Yang’s management can’t control the outpouring of support. “They’re trying to send you all kind of gifts - stuffed animals, balloons, letters, money--”

“I don’t need money,” Yang says lifelessly, staring down at the tendons in her wrist, flexing against the pain in her arm. She’s two PT sessions in, and she’s working hard despite the simplicity of the basics. It’s the pain that stands in the way, the stress. It’s the gun. It’s the shaking, like she’s still standing in that doorway, too terrified to move.

“I’m aware,” Glynda says over the phone. “But they’re going to do whatever they think is best.” 

“Redirect them,” Yang says, traces the lines of her palm. They’re suddenly unfamiliar to her. Maybe it’s just been a long time since she’s seen her own hand without Blake’s covering it. Even thinking her name hurts; with it comes the flashbacks, the blood, the screaming-- 

“To where?” 

“I want,” Yang says, and outside of her kitchen window, the sun shines too brightly for a day that has no business being anywhere close to it, “I want them to donate. To a charity. For victims of domestic violence.” 

There’s a long, prolonged silence, but not a hint of argument. “I’ll do some research,” Glynda says softly, “and I’ll compose a statement.” 

“Great.” Yang doesn’t bother with another word. The beeping signaling _end of call_ reminds her of the ambulance, and for the rest of the day she lays in bed with her eyes shut, curtains blocking out the light.

\--

Hours pass; she can’t tell if it’s dawn or dusk. Ruby knocks on her door at some point, turns the handle, doesn’t let herself further past the doorway. Like she’s afraid she isn’t allowed.

“Yang,” she murmurs, full of ache and heartbreak. 

“Just leave me alone,” Yang says lifelessly in response, muffled into her pillow. She doesn’t have the strength for tact, for compassion, for care. 

Maybe Ruby understands that, and lets her be. Maybe Ruby’s just as lost as she is. The door closes, and she’s left again to silence.

Alone, alone - it isn’t what she wants, but for once, she doesn’t know how to get what she does.

\--

After a few weeks, people really start to _wonder._

They aren’t seen together; they don’t interact. Isn’t it _weird,_ Twitter puts together, that Blake would go on tour after this? That she’d never mention Yang at _all?_

Maybe they want their privacy, one side argues. Maybe it’s just something they don’t want to talk about - why _would_ they - but they’re handling it. 

Or maybe Blake’s a stupid bitch who shouldn’t have dragged her past into her relationship with Yang, the other side replies. Maybe Blake’s a slut and she paid for it, and she made Yang pay for it, too.

They’re a little strong, and she can’t pretend it doesn’t sting. But she doesn’t think they’re completely wrong, either. 

She scrolls down the thread, the bus rolling along the road. Her phone says three a.m.; it’s one back home. She can’t stop calculating, can’t stop picturing Yang like a star chart - here’s where she burns between seven and nine at night; here’s the hour she’s at her brightest; here’s where she sets, stretches out in darkness. 

**Austin** @ _AustinNotTexas_ · 30m  
**__** _Replying to @mrmaxxx @stevenslater11 @b1tt3rl3ss_  
Well Yang blocked me so I guess they’re still together or something. She clearly doesn’t like people speaking their opinions about her girlfriend, even if they’re valid. Like the fact that she’s a slut for hitting on people in bars after her shows.

 **max** @ _mrmaxxx_ · 24m  
**__** _Replying to @AustinNotTexas @stevenslater11 @b1tt3rl3ss_  
she blocked me too. damn bro. bitch

Blake hovers, pauses, and does the exact same thing. Wonders why it feels like a cop-out, a betrayal to herself. She deserves to read every word - deserves the anger, the insults, the beratement. She _knows_ she does.

So she isn’t sure why she gives up, why she lets that hurt be enough, why she lets her own torture take the easy way out. 

Maybe that’s a piece of Yang she hasn’t managed to let go of: her kindness and its influence. 

\--

Weiss barely speaks to her, save for directions and information regarding the shows they’re performing. It actually takes her a long time to notice, and she only notices at all because there’s a Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday without a show, and Weiss is gone. 

“She went back to L.A.,” Sun says neutrally. “She’s visiting Yang.” 

“Oh,” Blake says, and she falls carefully blank again. “Good.” 

“She’s not the one who should be going back,” Sun says.

“I know,” she replies. She’s nearly drowning in a yellow hoodie Sun knows is Yang’s, curled with her knees pressed to her chest. It doesn’t change anything.

“That’s the problem,” Sun says after a moment of silence, like he physically can’t restrain himself. “You _know._ So what is it, Blake? What aren’t you telling us? What aren’t you telling _anybody?_ ” 

She looks at him, but he swears she stares straight through. Her lips crack as if forming around words - ones she’s hearing inside of her head, rather than attempting to speak aloud. Her fingers tighten, dig into the fabric. 

_Adam was right,_ she almost says, on the tip of her tongue and poison, fire, ash. _He was right about me, about everything. And I knew. I knew. I--_

“I knew,” she echoes vaguely, though without the context it’s almost meaningless. “ _That’s_ the problem. I _knew._ ” 

\--

The last people Yang expects to find at her door on a Monday morning are Weiss and Pyrrha together, wearing matching sunglasses and looking like somebody’s died. Maybe they have; maybe it’s her. Or maybe she’s projecting. Blake’s been gone for three weeks and it’s felt like every second of an eternity she didn’t ask for. 

(Her necklace presses warm against her skin, underneath her shirt and hidden. That’s the eternity she’d asked for, the immortality. Not this.)

Weiss maneuvers around her arm perfectly as if she’s somehow had practice; it isn’t awkward to embrace her, like it has been for most other people. She won’t treat Yang like something breakable: not a glass, not a vase, not the stems of the roses resting in it. 

“Yang,” she says, and she starts on curt and ends in resignation - as if she’d realized halfway through her name that not everything needs to begin with a firm hand. Her arms are gentle, one hand woven into the hair at the nape of Yang’s neck, loose from her bun.

“Weiss,” Yang breathes out, shocked to find her eyes filling with tears. “Weiss, what - what’re you--” 

“I heard you weren’t doing well,” she says, and doesn’t make a move to peel herself away. Yang’s entire body tremors in her arms, a hundred little earthquakes of her walls cracking, everything she’s held in tumbling out. “I thought it’d be for the best.”

She isn’t Blake, but she’s _close -_ like proof that she exists. That they both do, that they all used to, together.

She buries her face in the crook of Weiss’s neck, feels hot tears on her cheeks, pooling against Weiss’s skin. Feels her lungs like treading water. Everything burrowed inside of her starts leaking out, hits the air and hardens. 

But then Weiss sighs, tenderly kisses Yang on the side of the head; it’s such a soft gesture from such an unexpected person that she feels her heart splitting itself open on her doorstep, feels blood in her body like it’s all actually still there. Feels herself heavy and alive. “I love you, Yang. You can talk to me. To us.” 

And Yang breaks, like that’s all it takes. Like Ruby hasn’t spent the better part of three weeks trying to get her to do the same thing. Like Pyrrha hasn’t sat with her in silence for hours, hoping for something, anything. Like Nora’s never talked incessantly just to fill the void of her voice. 

_Talk to us,_ Weiss says, like she even remembers how. 

“It doesn’t feel real,” Yang weeps into her shoulder, nails digging in, one markedly less strong than the other. “None of it. Like she was never here, even though I know she was.” She takes long pauses between her sentences, crushing Weiss even tighter against her, body wracked with sobs. “But sometimes I - I expect her to be here, or - or I wake up, and I reach for her on the other side of the bed, and - and then I remember she’s gone, and it’s like I - like I have to lose her all over again. It never - it never stops _._ It never _stops._ ”

“I know,” Weiss murmurs, rubbing her hand carefully up and down Yang’s back. “I know, Yang.” 

“I miss her.” She disintegrates, her head aching and overflowing. “I miss her.” The sun melts like wax and drips from the sky, so bright it’s blinding. Heat and sweat and dust. Salt of the earth and running river water. She cries herself into nothingness, into shapes and senses, and there’s that rocking boat, there’s that ocean inhabiting her walls, there’s the drifting away, away, away.

\--

She wakes up on the couch, her wound freshly packed and voices low beside her. They’re hushed, but they aren’t talking about Blake; clearly they’d just been worried of disturbing her. 

“...Lucky you don’t start for another few weeks,” Weiss is saying. 

“Do you think you’ll come back?” Pyrrha asks quietly. “Whenever you’ve got time?” 

“I’m going to try,” she says, and repeats her earlier sentiment, “I think it’s for the best.” 

Yang turns her head, groggy and disoriented. The room comes into focus, the television, the sound system, the walls, the brilliant white of Weiss’s hair and the stunning red of Pyrrha’s. The large bag of packing material and gloves and tape and bandages. Their eyes, centered on her, their frowns in matching worry. 

“Oh, Yang,” Pyrrha murmurs, settling on her knees beside the couch, stroking Yang’s bangs away from her forehead. “Honey. How do you feel?” 

“What happened?” she manages, all of her words thick. 

“You passed out,” Weiss says. “You were...overwhelmed, I think. And in pain.”

She sits up carefully, her arm shaking underneath her weight. Pyrrha helps steady her until she can support herself. “I’m sorry,” she whispers miserably, ashamed and embarrassed. “I’m sorry, I--”

“It’s okay,” Pyrrha soothes, cuts off any further apology. “You’re allowed to have a hard time, Yang. You’re allowed.” 

“Yeah,” Yang says, blinking away fresh tears, and finally professes the one truth she hasn’t been able to face in the light. “I - I am. I’m - I’m having a hard time.” 

There’s a contemplative, gentle sort of quiet that dawns over the room. A relief rises with the confession. Sometimes, Yang realizes right then, it’s enough to have people who care about you, even if they aren’t the exact people you need. 

“Well,” Weiss says after, “at least you’re admitting it, and that’s more than I can say for her.” 

_Her,_ Weiss says, making Blake real again, making her tangible and present. _Her._ “Tell me about her,” Yang implores, too soft and sincere to refuse. “Please. I need to know.” 

“She’s a fucking mess,” Weiss says bluntly, without hesitation. “It’s like she’s...going through the motions. She barely speaks to anyone. She goes to bars with the band after, and sometimes lets people buy her drinks, but she - it’s like she panics when she realizes they aren’t you.” She pauses, tilts her head as if coming to an understanding. “If she couldn’t sing about you, I think she’d fall apart completely.” 

It hurts - worse than her arm, worse than being left. She thinks of Blake burying herself alive in guilt, slowly waiting to suffocate. “Yeah,” Yang says, and for the first time, she doesn’t look away. “Yeah, that’s kind of what I thought.”

\--

Blake won’t respond to her texts, won’t pick up her calls - fine. 

The night Weiss is due to fly back, Yang’s outside by the pool, phone in her hand and hovering over the _call_ button. It’s her best bet. She’d never pick up from Ruby, Tai, anyone linked to Yang or any unrecognizable number - but Weiss. Weiss is her manager. She doesn’t have a choice.

It rings once - the air’s cool, dusting goosebumps across her legs - twice - the moon’s glowing beneath its blanket of stars - three times - all of space is spinning out of position, wildly careening--

“Hello?” Blake answers, dull and expectant.

“Blake,” Yang says immediately, unable to stop the rush from the sound of her voice alone. “Please, don’t - don’t hang up. Please. _Please._ ” 

There’s only the choking of breath - a sharp inhale, as if she’s been struck, and then--

“ _Yang?_ ” she whispers, heartbreak evident in every letter. Ignoring calls is one thing. Outright disconnecting from them - that’s something else entirely. She couldn’t even if she’d wanted to, and Yang knows she doesn’t.

“ _Blake_ ,” she repeats, clinging to that same desperate intensity. She has so much to say, and now that she has the opportunity, she doesn’t know how to say any of it - she presses the heel of her palm against her forehead, hunched over, trying to keep herself grounded. Shuts her eyes. “I - I miss you. I miss you so _much._ ” It’s the first instinct, the easiest, the barest truth. “More than I thought it was possible to miss anything.” 

“You should hate me,” Blake says, as if the words have to fight to escape the tightness of her chest. Shaking, shattering in her mouth. She sounds off, somehow. Like she _is_ a thing, _is_ a vase, cracked and broken. “I want you to hate me.” 

“I’ll never hate you,” Yang says vehemently, the first flicker of passion she’s felt since that night. The first fire, the first fight. “ _Nothing_ you’ve done - nothing you’ll do - will ever make me hate you.” 

“Don’t say that.” The remorse releases so strongly it comes out as anger. Like if she isn’t hated, she won’t know what she is. “Not after what I did to you.”

“Not you,” Yang says. “It wasn’t _you._ ”

“It may as well have been.”

“It’s not the same.”

“You’re right,” Blake agrees, and for a split second, Yang thinks they’re getting somewhere. “It’s worse. Because I knew. I knew what he’d do to you.” 

“It doesn’t mean you _made him_ do it!” 

“Doesn’t it?” she asks quietly. “If I knew we’d end up here eventually? If I knew what lengths he’d go to?” 

“Did you pull the trigger?” Yang counters back. “Did you invite him into the room with a gun? Did you want to die? Did you want him to kill me?” 

“ _No!_ ” she responds, frantic and fraying at the edges. Yang only needs to wrap her fingers around the threads and pull. “ _No,_ but--” 

“No,” Yang interrupts. “It wasn’t _you._ ”

She doesn’t seem to have a response, but it’s devastatingly apparent in her silence - she hasn’t changed her mind. And she won’t.

It’s a stalemate. A phone call isn’t enough to undo years and years of manipulation, of gaslighting, of bruises. She can’t give up, and Blake can’t give in - she doesn’t even know how to.

That’s what abuse did to her, Yang thinks dully. Make her forget she was ever a victim. Exactly what it was supposed to.

“Why?” Yang murmurs into the phone, forehead still pressed against her palm, eyes shut tight against a truth she used to face wide open; she can’t stop her trembling, her whimper, her break. The way ice cracks in a pond. “Why wouldn’t you - at least say _goodbye?_ ” 

“Because,” Blake says, throat full of tears, “you would’ve told me it wasn’t my fault, and I would - I would have believed you.” 

This is it, the end; their brief respite coming to a close.

“I love you,” Yang says, and she lets her own tears fall. “I’m not letting you go. Not like this.”

“I love you,” Blake murmurs back, and she doesn’t. “You should.” 

\--

It’s a form of torture, Sun recognizes early on. She’s torturing herself. She’s doing it on purpose.

Every song on their album is about Yang - and if it’s not about her, she plays a role in it, holds an influence. Blake might’ve left her but her music didn’t. It’s her outlet. It’s her way of singing all the things she can’t say anymore. It’s her way of hurting. 

She plays incredibly every night, every show, breaks her voice raw, fingers digging chords down to the bone, pours her soul into her melody like it has nothing else to inhabit, recently without a home. It’s like she’s memorializing Yang, mythologizing her. 

But something’s changed the night after Weiss returns. She’s losing herself further into the music, forgetting where she is in the world. Or maybe she’s finally remembering, and she doesn’t like what she sees. Either way, it’s the first time she slips, cracks herself wide open. 

“Oh,” she says into the microphone before she plays the opening to _Alone Together,_ “you all know who this is for.”

Yang’s fine in Blake’s music. Both of them are. Maybe that’s the worst pain of all.

\--

It’s the only time she ever mentions it at a show, and it’s picked apart immediately. 

Someone’s shaky iPhone recording gets shared across every celebrity site, somehow makes it into a feature on _E!,_ both their news and some gossip show. The hosts look devastated when it ends; two of them exchange a broken-hearted glance, hands over their hearts and murmuring sympathies. 

“This isn’t even one of those I wanna, like, _talk_ about,” one of the women says, shifting uncomfortably. “I’m really rooting for them. What happened to them was terrible, and it’s not--”

“It’s not like they just _broke up,_ ” the other woman chimes in. “Like, nothing went wrong _personally,_ and that’s usually what’s fun to talk about. The drama. This isn’t drama.” 

“Exactly,” the first woman says. “It’s not fun. Nothing about this situation is fun. It’s just sad. You can tell they’re still in love. I can’t even - like, I can’t even imagine what they’re going through.” 

“Who put this clip in here?” the man half-jokes, supposed to move on for the audience, keep the segment light - except that it’s painfully obvious how serious he is. “Come on! Leave them alone! They’ve been through enough!” 

Yang shuts the television off, buries her face in her hands, rubs desperately as if trying to tear herself away from her skin, from her house, from the earth. She’s seen the clip a thousand times - she’s pieced together the entire show through various YouTube videos - it’s not healthy, but ignoring it would be even worse - she hates that these people _get_ it, hates that she and Blake are so tragic of a story they have an audience like a play, have a commentary, have a narrative. 

Hates that there’s nothing she can do. Not now, with her arm half-functioning and unsteady in the face of loud noises, shaking her awake from nightmares. PTSD, her doctor had said. There are options for treatment. Therapy, medication--

It’s Ruby who finds her overcome by mountains, by the seemingly unconquerable. Finds her split between two paths and sinking into the dirt. 

“I don’t know where to start,” Yang confesses before Ruby can ask, because she’s trying to be better. Trying to accept help from the people who love her. She isn’t the only one who lost Blake, she’s realizing - they all did. The minute Adam showed up in their hotel room with a gun, they’d all lost her. “Blake, my arm - I don’t know what to fix first.” 

Ruby sits contemplatively for a moment - traces Yang openly, the bags under her eyes, her bandaged arm, the touristy _D.C._ sweater that fits too snugly to be hers - and then says, “You know how on airplanes, they’re always telling you to put on your own oxygen mask before helping others?” It’s rhetorical, but she waits for the sentiment to sink in. “I think you need to put on your own mask first. You can’t help Blake if you can’t even breathe, Yang.” 

She thinks back to her trainer’s earliest words - the will, he’d said, you need to find the will to work - and thinks to her progress now, steady but slow. Thinks to how easily exhaustible she is, how prone she’s become to giving up on herself. Like subconsciously, she doesn’t think it’s worth it. 

“You’re right,” she says, and Ruby’s expression transitions into surprise - she hadn’t expected the agreement. Yang can’t really blame her. “It’s just - I don’t know _how._ I was fine. _I_ was fine. It was always her that I was trying to - to protect.”

“That’s what she thinks she’s doing, Yang,” Ruby says, eyes downcast. Bottom lip caught between her teeth. “She thinks she’s protecting you.” 

“From what?”

“From herself.”

\--

It’s an “inside source” - it always is. 

So in reality, it’s probably a roadie; someone who sees Blake close enough on occasion to know she’s a wreck, and puts the rest together.

Some gossip site publishes the first of what becomes an explosion of articles on their breakup - though Blake isn’t sure that’s even what to call it. They didn’t _break up._ To her, that’d include some form of conversation, a mutual understanding and parting. Whatever this is, whatever she’d done - breakup isn’t a term that even comes close. 

What she’s done, she wants to believe, is unforgivable. 

_“They’re no longer together,” a source close to the couple claims. “They’re trying to recover on their own, though they’re still very much in love. What they went through was traumatic, and ultimately drove a wedge between them they weren’t able to overcome.”_

Good, she thinks, and that night on stage, she sings like it’s her last.

\--

Blake goes out to bars. Lets someone buy her a drink. Lets people look at her and talk, hiding their mouths behind their hands, their eyes slanted. Too many people recognize her now. She hopes they all hate her, too.

She still times out Yang’s evenings, likes to pretend she remembers routine. Brushing her teeth, washing her face, falling into bed with her phone and whatever new mobile game she’s addicted to. She removes things that included her. The time Yang used to spend with her mouth covering Blake’s skin. Their laughter on the nights they weren’t in the mood for it. Sometimes Blake’d read to her until she fell asleep, if the set left her too wound up rather than exhausted.

 _Sing to me,_ she’d say every once in awhile. and that’s the hardest to remember of all. So she downs another shot of whiskey and doesn’t.

\--

But she doesn’t sleep anymore. No amount of alcohol helps what she dreams of when she does. 

The movies all have it wrong, she recognizes early on. Their realistic flashbacks in the form of night terrors, pinpointed perfectly to every recreated detail. That’s not what it’s like at all. 

When she dreams, they’re in the hotel, and nothing about it is realistic, only horrifying. Once, Sun’s there, having a seance with Adam’s ghost over Yang’s body, and he spends what feels like hours with his wretched, gaping mouth stretching wider and wider as he hisses blame at her, all the horrible things he’d grown to make her believe about herself. His skin snaps and tears, His bones crack and disintegrate. His eyes are only knotholes, dark and carnivorous. She can never move, in that one, only sit and listen and sob. 

In another, she’s the one who points the gun at Yang, and pulls the trigger herself. It’s never at her arm. It’s straight into her heart.

So she doesn’t sleep anymore.

She’s started going through podcasts. Started making playlists. _in another life i wrote this about you,_ that’s what she calls the first one - all the lyrics say “I love you,” say “I’m sorry,” say “I never meant to hurt you.” _i told this city your name and it already knew,_ she drunkenly labels the second, and it’s nothing but mistakes and regret, love that shouldn’t have been lost and was anyway. 

_you and every dark pretty thing,_ that’s the latest, born of Yang in her black sheer dress and her lips redder than her blood - it’s all music she imagines devils request at funerals, low basslines and wanting someone so badly you’d die for them, or kill them yourself.

She’s past waist-deep in this pool of thought - not a pool, an ocean, and she’s sunk up to her shoulders, water sinking into her lungs - when she full-screens the app by accident, and her _Friend Activity_ becomes visible.

 **YXL** 8m  
Your Biggest Mistake  
Ellie Goulding  
◎ Lights

Her heart throbs like it’s pressed against her bones, like she’s shrunk so small there’s nowhere else for it to go. Compressed in time, space, skin. She doesn’t know the song but she knows it’s a message for her - like Yang’s telling her to press play. To _listen._

What, Blake imagines her saying, just because I don’t sing means I don’t get a say?

Her earphones are already shoved in her ears - cheaper ones, noise-cancelling, unobtrusive. Social media terrifies her, again and again and again; she can’t escape Yang, she’s everywhere, she’s in every app, every newsfeed, every timeline - and now - now she’s where she’s always been, where she was born to be: Blake’s music.

She presses play, shuts her eyes, and absorbs the words like Yang’s the one speaking them to her.

_It’s a shame you don’t know what you’re running from._

At the end of it, she creates a new playlist. Puts the song on repeat until she falls asleep. 

This time, all she dreams about is coming home, falling into Yang’s arms and crying.

\--

Yang sees Blake’s activity switch. Watches her play the song. Watches her play it again, and again, and again. And for a single, devastating moment, it’s almost like they’re together.

\--

In June, they’re a month and a half into the tour; Yang’s a month and a half into her physical therapy. She’s making progress - real, tangible progress. She can lift more weight every session; she can unfold her arm without wincing. Blake, on the other hand, is deteriorating. 

Not that anyone else would know - she’s keeping up appearances, doing interviews, playing her perfect shows; their fans are all still torn, supporting them and wanting to believe in a future for them. Wanting to believe they’ll be what Blake’s songs all say they are. 

She doesn’t look any different, night to night, but she holds herself differently, struggles a little more with her mouth. It takes her a split second longer to fake a smile. Without her boots, she’d crumble under the towering world, too small to pretend she can hold it up alone. There are lines she can’t sing anymore without them turning raw at the corners.

Yang’s muscle damage is mostly healed; she’s had regular check-ins with her doctor, and her physical therapist is pleased with the renewed dedication she’s developed. Slowly, the wound is healing, pink skin puffy and sensitive - it’s jagged at the incision site, obtrusive and ugly. But she’s alive, and her arm _works,_ and any pain is temporary. That’s what she tells herself until she stretches her arm overhead without thinking, and it doesn’t sting the way she’s used to. And then it becomes true.

What happened to her is temporary. What’s happening to Blake probably looks a lot like a tunnel without a light. Every step deeper and darker and never-ending.

That’s what Yang’s working so hard to be: the gentle end of a long, long journey. 

\--

 **YXL** 2m  
The Chain  
Ingrid Michaelson  
◎ Everybody

\--

Nearing the middle of June, they’ve decided they can’t allow it any longer, but they don’t know how to stop it, either. Blake literally doesn’t have time to see a therapist with their current schedule, which is what they all know she needs, and they’re too close to the end to change course now. Sun tries to talk to her - not about Yang, not about Adam - anything. Anything, just to hear her voice. Just to pull it out of her. 

But it doesn’t work. It’s like reaching out a hand to save someone who’s determined to make themselves dead weight. She’s given interviews to magazines, talks every night to fans - part of Sun wonders if they’d all died to her that night. If they’d all become ghosts.

Weiss is the one who snaps. They’re on the bus to Philadelphia, and Blake’s been sitting on the couch for hours, staring out the window with eyes so lifeless it’s becoming their own personal brand of Lovecraftian horror - what can she possibly be seeing out there, in the blank nothingness of fields at midnight - nothing alive, nothing real, nothing tangible and in front of her. And worse, what’s happening where they _can’t_ see it, inside of her - that unknowable, chaotic force. 

“Blake,” Weiss says and has to say her name twice more before she finally looks over. “If you don’t talk to us, I’m cancelling the rest of the tour.” 

She blinks in slow comprehension. “What? Why?” 

“Because you’re a fucking wreck,” Ilia says bluntly. “This was a stupid idea from the beginning. We never should’ve gone on tour.”

It’s hard for her to place herself in the world, in the present, in the conversation. “We--” she says, starts, stops. “Am I ruining it?” 

Sun shifts uncomfortably; the truth is that she’s at her absolute best on stage, better than she’s ever been, but it isn’t worth her destruction off of it. “No,” he says. “But that’s not the point.” 

“What is this,” she says flatly, “my intervention?” 

“If that’s what it takes,” Weiss says, drawing herself up. “Blake, what Adam did to you--” 

“ _Don’t_ say his name to me,” she interrupts, suddenly deadly quiet and serious. It’s the most coherent they’ve seen her in weeks. “I don’t want to talk about it.” 

“Yeah, that’s the entire _problem,_ ” Neptune finally chimes in, looking decently ashamed of himself. He’s always had a harder time with confrontation. “You - you don’t want to talk about _anything._ You’re like - it’s like you’re not even here.” 

She stares at him; stares at each of them in turn. Somewhere, Sun swears he hears the sound of breaking _._ “I don’t know what you want from me,” she whispers, and they’re all unnerved to see her eyes so dry with her throat so tight. “I’m doing the best I can, okay?” 

_No,_ Sun wants to say, _no, it’s not okay_ \- _none of this is okay, Yang’s not okay, I’m not okay_ \- but whatever’s left of his heart is already shattering in his chest, pieces pooled in blood - blood - Yang’s soaked arm, Blake’s hands covered in red - her wild eyes, her scream, her ruined dress, Adam’s body--

And he realizes this is what Blake sees all the time. Every day. Every minute.

So he shuts his mouth, watches Weiss’s face instead - watches her shift from frustration to heartbreak to defeat, watches her come no closer to answers than they’ve been. Watches her give up.

“Can’t we just - can’t we just make it through this?” Blake begs, shivering with her arms wrapped around her body. “Please?” 

The fight fades from Neptune entirely, and he slumps back into his seat. Ilia’s hands are curled into fists, but she’s biting her bottom lip between her teeth. It’s all too familiar - years ago, Blake burrowing into herself, so thin and small; bones and bruises making homes of her skin. Speaking with a waver in her voice and terrified of touch. 

And the thing is, she’s _right_ ; there’s nothing any of them can do now, except hope and wait and work towards a better place. Sometimes, in the moment, the only decisions you can make are bad ones, but they’re all you have.

\--

But it’s the final straw for Weiss. 

She can’t support Blake - can’t support her talking to strangers in bars, can’t support her hollow and empty and dragging her heart across the stage, can’t support her hurting all the people who’ve only ever tried to help.

She flies back again. Back to Yang, to Ruby, to Pyrrha. Back to who still consider her family and treat her like it.

She only ever has a few days at a time, but she uses them well; sometimes she takes Yang to her PT or doctor’s appointments. She stays over at Pyrrha’s, practices vulnerability, learns how to admit how painful it is to do nothing. That’s what she can’t say to Yang, can’t say to Blake: Adam took something from them all. 

They’re having a cider at Yang’s kitchen counter to celebrate the end of her antibiotics; she’s been in the clear for a little while now, but it’s felt like too big a step to take without the one person she wishes were there to take it with her. She’s on her phone, Weiss on her laptop; there’s still plenty to manage and keep track of.

“When does your next project start?” she’s asking idly, scrolling with her fingers on the trackpad.

“In two months,” Yang says. “They pushed the dates for me, but they had the room to.”

“That’s good,” Weiss says. “It’s fortunate that you were in-between projects.” 

Yang almost laughs - it’s so _like_ her to find some terrible, tactless silver lining - but doesn’t at the last second, too surprised by the urge to actually follow through with it. “Yeah,” she says, going as far as a smile. “It’s good I wasn’t actively filming something.”

“Exactly.” She pauses, opens her mouth to continue, and snaps it just as quickly; a moment later and her laptop follows, slammed shut. She pushes the device away from her, seething.

It’d be slightly frightening, if Yang hadn’t already seen on her own phone exactly what Weiss just had.

“What now?” Yang asks, bringing the bottle to her lips.

Weiss hesitates, as if only just realizing Yang’s still sitting there. She presses her lips together. “Nothing,” she says, lying badly. 

“Blake, right?” Yang pegs, and now her smile takes bitter roots; it’s not as tonight’s the only night. She’s seen every picture in every city, read all the fan sightings, accounts of Blake taking a drink from any random person showing interest in her. “At a club or something, talking up some guy at the bar. Like I don’t even exist.” 

The recount only seems to make Weiss angrier; Yang can sense the turmoil inside of her, like she’s waiting to blow up, waiting to get Blake in front of her and scream like it’s her that’s been betrayed. Maybe she has, in a way.

“I don’t understand _why,_ ” Weiss says after a pause, disheartened. “That’s it, I suppose. I’ve always understood Blake perfectly, but now, I just - I can’t. I _won’t_.” She enunciates the word with a sense of pride, and Yang recognizes the meaning behind it: she’s on Yang’s side, she’s trying to convey. She won’t compromise her loyalty, her taste for the black-and-white.

Yang allows her mouth to fall back to stoicism, averts her eyes to the countertop, digs her thumb into the ridges of the bottle-cap. 

“I do,” she says quietly, looking at the jagged imprint it leaves against her skin. She can still hear Adam’s words to Blake like he’s standing there, shouting them at her.“I know exactly why.” 

_Everything that happens now…_

Weiss looks at her but remains silent, and doesn’t even think of prying. It’s not hers to ask for. Maybe, she’s realizing, it isn’t hers to even remotely understand at all. 

... _is entirely your fault._

“I hate this house,” Yang says vaguely, staring at her own reflection in the window.

\--

 **YXL** 5m  
I Miss You (feat. Julia Michaels)  
Clean Bandit, Julia Michaels  
◎ What Is Love? (Deluxe Edition)

\--

They’re playing in New York. She’s as far away from Yang as she’s going to get, and she finally feels it, that distance stretching like a string pulled too taut. Maybe that’s what makes it worse.

She goes a little too far. Has one too many drinks. Lets a woman touch her arm, lets a man take the seat next to her and grin with all his teeth. She barely notices. All the voices blend together in a blur; the room’s close, lights dull. She’s so drunk she can’t even stop herself from thinking about Yang; thinks about being in her arms, in her bed; thinks of Yang smiling against her mouth and her blonde hair in a messy bun. Thinks of all the time they used to spend pressed together, so close there were no beginnings and no ends, only forever. 

The man wraps his fingers around her wrist lightly. She can’t even comprehend the pressure, and wonders if this is what it feels like after being shot in the arm. 

Sun’s through with standing by, though; Sun, who can’t stop replaying his promise to Yang the day he’d left. I’ll take care of her, he’d said, and he’s doing a shit job of it.

The man’s good-looking - they always are - arrogant without the charm, lips pulled tight at the edges, like he’s getting lucky. Sun doesn’t mind ruining that for him. He leans between them both, tugs the man’s hand away from Blake. Protects her, like he should’ve been doing all along.

“Hey,” Sun says dangerously, eyes flashing. “Don’t try it. I’m serious.” 

He sneers. “What the fuck do _you_ care for?” he spits. “You want her or something?” 

“I’m _right here,_ ” Blake says, no heat behind the statement. She’s not, Sun realizes. She’s not here at all. She’s somewhere far, far away. On a different coast. In a different life.

“She’s drunk,” Sun says firmly. “She doesn’t want you. Fuck off.” 

Maybe it’s Sun’s height, maybe it’s the obvious muscle protruding from underneath his shirt - whatever it is, the man curls his upper lip, glances between the two, and stalks off back into the crowd. Blake watches with a mildly bored look her face, an expression he knows she’s spent years perfecting; it doesn’t mean anything. Her stare is vacant, off. 

“What are you doing, Blake,” he says, not like a question. He takes the stool vacated by the sleazy man, rests his elbows on the bar. He doesn’t look at her. 

“What I want,” she says. “Is that a problem for you?” 

“Yeah,” he says, lifting his head and meeting her eyes. Her eyebrows raise in surprise, in anger. “You’re not doing ‘what you want’. That’s bullshit. You don’t want this.” 

“Oh, and _you_ somehow know what I want?” she snaps rudely, unsteadily. “Just because we’re friends doesn’t mean--” 

“Stop,” he says lowly, exhausted. She’d been so happy. She’d been so close to it. She shuts her mouth, almost for reasons she can’t comprehend, only recognizing how serious he’s being. “I know I do dumb shit, but I’m not stupid. We both know what you really want.” Her grip around her glass tightens, lips pressing into a thin line. He catches both reactions. “Or I guess I should say _who._ ” 

“Don’t,” she says quietly, and her face cracks for a split second, heartbreak evident underneath before it smoothes itself over again. “Please don’t.” 

He knows he shouldn’t say it even before the words leave his mouth but he can’t stop them, like an accident, like a crashing car, like another bullet. He’s tired of watching her destroy herself, her happiness, everything she’s ever worked for; she’d been so _close._ He thinks of Yang waking up in the hospital, the way she didn’t breath, didn’t blink, didn’t cry when he’d told her _Blake’s okay, but she isn’t coming._ Thinks of how she stared out the window for days and let her sunflowers die. He knows he shouldn’t say it but he does anyway. “Haven’t you hurt her enough?” 

He winces internally, wants to take it back, but it doesn’t compare to the way Blake flinches at the words like he’s balled them up in his fist and struck her with them; her expression shatters entirely apart - like broken glass, like the sky when it rains - and focuses on him, true clarity coming to her for the first time in what feels like hours, days, weeks. She’s staring at him like _he’s_ the stranger instead of her, and for a split second he sees what she’s hiding from him, sees the weight and intensity of it, sees it in its raw, crippling entirety. 

He thought he’d known before, on the bus. Thought he’d understood the depth of every scar, even the ones she’d tried to keep hidden. 

“Fuck you, Sun,” she whispers shakingly, slips off her stool and disappears into the crowd.

He’d been wrong. 

\--

She isn’t running anymore. She can’t run in a city that doesn’t care where she is in the first place. 

All the lights are too bright, the crowds too big - she stumbles down the sidewalk, stares only at the ground - too many people have faces like his, and Yang could be anywhere - posters, billboards - Blake’s positive she’s flashing through Times Square - she needs the lonely quiet, needs to go dark and disappear. 

The city’s tall, towering and engulfing her. The streets move as if conveyor belts, cars shooting past and honking. Her head aches and every noise sounds like the knocking on her hotel room door. The heat is damp and settles into her blood, a thin layer over the alcohol. Skin too warm and clammy. She can’t even see the moon, no matter which direction she turns.

It’s nothing like Los Angeles at all.

\--

It’s midnight when Yang gets the call, phone vibrating underneath her pillow. She’d had a grueling day, and passed out early after a rough session with her trainer - someone had dropped a weight, missing the mat, and the horrible grating, clanking sound had left her hand paralyzed, shaking violently.

She reaches for it groggily, squinting at the brightness of the screen; the caller I.D. has no name, only says _Private Number_. She stares blankly, and without knowledge, without reason, answers. 

“Hello?” she says, closing her eyes. 

It’s only silence on the other end, but a vague, detached kind of silence; not muted, simply empty. She waits for a response and doesn’t get one. 

“Hello?” she tries again, and hears nothing. One, two, three... “Okay. I’m hanging up.” 

She threatens it, but she doesn’t actually do it. Maybe she knows, on some level. Maybe she just hopes. She lies there with her phone pressed against her ear and she swears she can hear the choke of breath, the sound of a faint, muffled crying; she bites down on the inside of her lip harshly, heart twisting so hard it aches in her throat. 

“Blake?” she asks softly, and the line goes dead.

She doesn’t sleep much after that.

\--

 **YXL** 12m  
Home  
The New Coast  
◎ Home

\--

Sun looks for her for half an hour before finally deciding to check their empty bus, parked securely at the hotel. It’s unlocked, and all the lights are off, but the parking structure itself seeps dim, yellowing light across the floor, across the walls. Across Blake, sitting at the small kitchen table with a bottle of whiskey in her hand.

She doesn’t seem to remember how angry she’d been at him only an hour previously; she gazes at him and her focus slips. Pupils contracting, expanding again. The recognition is there, but it’s far beyond mattering, anyway. 

“D’you know what he said to me?” she slurs, knees pulled up to her chest, bottle held tight in her other hand. “What Adam - what Adam said to me?”

“No,” Sun says cautiously, approaching slowly, attempting not to startle her as if her flight instinct will kick it at any moment and send her running. “I don’t.” 

“He said,” Blake starts, and he can hear the way her throat closes over her tears, how her muscles constrict, how her voice catches like she’s still in that room with a gun pointed at her, pointed at Yang. “He said that everything that happened - that it was _all_ my fault. He said it was _my_ fault, and then he shot her.” 

Sun feels himself freeze at the admission, dread dawning over him, like the flash of a camera illuminating a dark room. His tongue lolls in his throat, disconnected; his brain’s cut off from its stem - like his body’s doing everything it can to protect him from the knowledge that she’s acting how she is because Adam made her think she deserves it.

“Blake,” he says incredulously, “you don’t - you don’t _believe_ that, do you?” Please, he thinks. Please, _no_. 

But he already knows the answer.

Guilt - he’d expected that. It’s what people _do_ in these situations; the one you love hurts, and you blame yourself for not hurting in place of them. But to find out it’s _purposeful_ \- an act of abuse so intricately crafted, so _evil_ , a single sentence followed by an action so devastating she’d have no choice but to watch, to listen, to absorb every detail--

Manipulation had always been Adam’s strongest suit, and if he couldn’t have Blake, nobody could. Not Yang. Not her friends. Not even Blake herself. He’d wanted her to internalize it until it killed her, too, and none of them had thought about that at all. 

Why? he thinks desperately. Why had none of them _thought_ about his last words to her? How they could’ve cut like knives? How they could’ve been more fatal than bullets?

“It’s true,” she says, and in the flickering light he expects to see damp tracks forming down her cheeks - he finds none, and his stomach drops violently. She can’t even bring herself to _cry._ “It was my fault.” 

“ _No,_ ” Sun says softly, horrified. He takes a step closer, kneeling in front of her. “Blake, it _wasn’t_ your fault--” 

“It was,” she repeats, and the words that follow seem to blend together in a single distorted, mangled line of thought, but she’s not talking to him, she’s making the argument to herself, and he’s right - she _wants_ blame, wants the responsibility to fall on her because she thinks it’s justified. “I _knew_ that he - I knew what he _wanted,_ what he felt, the - the things he would _do,_ and I didn’t do _anything._ ” She inhales, or tries to, but gets caught in her own lungs, dry sobbing. “I thought about it, so many times, but by then it’d been so long that I stopped. I thought that we could be _happy,_ that’s why it’s my fault. I thought I could have that. I thought I was finally _allowed_.” 

“Jesus Christ, Blake,” Sun breathes out blankly, buzzing with shock, like his skin is trying to pull away from everything underneath. “This isn’t - you’re wrong. You’re wrong. You _can_ have that, you did have it, I saw it--” 

“Sometimes it’s better to be alone,” she says, uncomprehending.

He rests his hands on her shoulders, forcing her to look at him; she pauses strangely, meeting his eyes as if she hadn’t even known he was there. He says slowly, pointedly, “Blake,” and she doesn’t even blink. “This was _Adam’s_ fault. _He_ was crazy, he was - he was _abusive_ , and _he_ did this to you, to Yang. Not you!”

Blake is silent for a second, and the way she stares through him leaves him shivering, unsettled. “Adam’s dead,” she finally says sluggishly, but the intent behind it is lacquered in self-loathing. “He’s dead, so there’s only me.”

Sun takes the bottle from her loose grip and sets it on the table, and then he carefully wraps her up in his arms, biting his own lip to stop himself from crying and fails. She lets herself be cradled against him, breath stumbling over itself in a way too muted, too desolate, too empty. Like she hurts so much she can’t move, can’t fight, can’t do anything but let it dig its claws into her and tear. 

She eventually passes out and Sun sits awake thinks about spirits, thinks about how they used to argue over graveyards, paranormal activity, ouija boards. He thinks about the hotel, how he challenged her to a haunting. _It’s all bullshit,_ Blake used to say. _Just people making noise who want a paycheck._

Ghosts are real, he thinks; ghosts are real, and every single one of them has come to claim her.

\--

 _weiss,_ Sun texts, _we r so fucking stupid._

_Excuse me?_

_u need to tell yang how bad it is_  
_we need to do something_  
_i know its selfish of us and blake hurt her but_  
_lets face it. who else is she gonna listen to_

_Sun,_ she types, _did something happen?_

 _yeah,_ he says. _something happened._

\--

Boston’s next, and there are four whole days between shows, meaning Weiss is gone. 

Sun hasn’t talked to Blake about it, but he knows she remembers. She’d woken up in her bunk and he’d handed her an aspirin. She’d held his eyes, and the regret painted in his had been enough. 

It’d signaled an understanding, and an end. 

He isn’t going to let her destroy herself, no matter how badly she wants to. Now he knows what she’s operating off of, and he’ll do everything in his power to fight it for her until she finds the strength to do it herself.

\--

“Check this out,” Yang says seriously, and reaches to her top cabinet with her right arm. The still-healing skin stretches grotesquely, pink and raised - it’s almost hard for Weiss to watch, and she resists the urge to rub at her own arm - but it doesn’t seem to hurt her as she opens the cabinet door, and that’s the little victory. “I’m like, almost self-sufficient now.” 

“I’m _so_ proud,” Weiss says, too dry for total sincerity, and Yang laughs. “Though personally, I think everyone’s best day was when you could finally wash your hair without help.” 

“You all did it wrong.” 

“Well, at least we _tried,_ ” she says, rolling her eyes. _Blake could’ve done it perfectly_ goes unsaid. “It isn’t _our_ fault your regiment is stricter than the military.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Yang waves it away and redirects the conversation. “How long are you here for, anyway?”

She already knows the answer; she’s had Blake’s tour dates memorized from the moment they’d been nailed down. But neither of them mention that, either. “Three days,” Weiss responds neutrally. “I’m flying into Boston on Thursday.” 

“I like Boston,” Yang says, spacing out a little. “It’s like - if New York City and L.A. melted together, or something.” 

Weiss’s phone vibrates. _did u show her,_ he says. 

She doesn’t reply. It vibrates again.

_show her u moron_

She tuts under her breath, an uncontrollable expression of defiance. 

“What, hot date?” Yang says, and pulls a face immediately after. “Oh, wait, nevermind. You’re dating Pyrrha.”

She’s in much better spirits than Weiss has seen her previously, and it makes it that much harder to do what she’s supposed to. It’ll bring Yang straight back down, but maybe she’s high enough now that she’s remembered how to land on her feet. 

“No,” she says, and that’s it. She reaches into her bag, fingers wrapping around the curled pages. Pauses.

Yang only watches curiously. “So?” 

They’re out of time, she tells herself. She doesn’t have a choice. Sometimes all your options are bad, but maybe - just maybe - this one isn’t.

“I wasn’t planning on showing this to you,” she starts reluctantly, “but Sun pointed out that it’d only be a matter of time until a fan tweeted you about it, or some reporter overstepped his boundaries, so--” 

“Out with it, Weiss,” Yang says; it’s always the same with Hollywood. “What kind of shit are people spreading about me _now?_ ” 

Weiss bites her lip, but tosses the magazine down onto the table; it skids slightly, stopping at an angle in front of Yang, who glosses over it the briefest of seconds, and freezes entirely. 

“It’s not about you,” Weiss says softly. “Or, it _is_ , but…” 

It’s a piece on Menagerie, but focuses specifically on Blake, her songwriting process, her relationship with the rest of the band. Yang stares at Blake’s picture taking up the left page, emotion building too quickly for her to mask, and Weiss catches the underlying heartbreak; it’s always there, but rarely evident. Her eyes dart to the article portion, and she reads slowly, shaking her head at a point when Blake’s voice transitions from words on a page into a memory, like she’s speaking inside of Yang’s skull.

“Why didn’t you want to show this to me?” Yang asks, holding her tone steady. 

Weiss’s gaze falls to the end paragraph; even without being able to read it from where she stands, she remembers it, remembers the flush of guilt, the shame of her own obliviousness, stubbornness. Remembers realizing more than one person was irrevocably hurt that night.

“Because I thought it’d send you over the edge,” Weiss admits. “I thought you’d see it and you’d...crack, and do something stupid.”

Yang doesn’t answer her for a moment, still staring blankly down at the article. She runs a finger over Blake’s picture, the line of her mouth, like she’s never smiled at all.

“You’re only half-wrong,” Yang tells her quietly. “I’ve already been planning on doing something stupid.”

\--

_Blake shakes her hair out from underneath her jacket, and stands up to leave._

_“How are you still functioning after all of this?” I blurt out, unable to resist asking her; it isn’t my proudest moment, nor even close to a professional one, but I’ve spent the better part of an hour with her and seen nothing but a steadiness and collection I barely possess on my best days, and she’s just been through a highly traumatic, highly publicized event. “How are you managing, moving on?”_

_She stops by the doorway, and her expression is no more undecipherable than it’s been, almost unnerving in its carefully-concentrated construction._

_“Someone once told me I wasn’t a very good actor,” she tells me vaguely. “I guess they were wrong.”_ ∎

\--

 _I’m not_. Yang knows what she really says, can see her mouth moving, hears the buzzing in her mind. _I’m not managing at all._

\--

 _We’re working on it,_ Weiss finally texts him back.

\--

 **YXL** 3m  
Alone Together  
Menagerie  
◎ Until You

\--

Sun barely lets her out of his sight for the next few days. 

They make it to the city a little earlier than expected; normally Weiss handles their hotel check-ins, but she’s still a few hours out from landing. Sun takes over for her after she gives him explicit instructions over her in-flight WiFi. 

How hard can it be to check in, Blake scoffs internally, but decides to keep it to herself.

“We’re in separate rooms for once,” Sun says, passing out their keys. “Blake and I are on the eighteenth floor - Neptune, you’re the twelfth, and Ilia, you’re the tenth.” 

“Great,” Blake says. “Can we go to them, or does Weiss need to send you directions?” 

They all look at her strangely. Nobody laughs. She shuts her mouth, feels the blush snaking around her neck.

It’s only when they’re on their own floor that Sun says, “That’s the first joke you’ve made in two months.” 

He’s stuck on the _joke_ part of that sentence. She can’t believe it’s only been two months when it’s felt like an eternity. She’s heard that time passes slower in hell; maybe that has something to do with it.

\--

Weiss arrives a few hours later, stops by each other their rooms to go over the itinerary; they have a soundcheck and a technical run-through of the show the next day, and they play the following two nights after that. The rest of the time is theirs to do what they want with. 

So, naturally, Sun lives in her room. 

She only has a king bed, but he doesn’t care - he stays with her until two a.m., watching movies, playing games on his phone, talking to her randomly when the mood strikes. She realizes he doesn’t expect her to answer. She realizes how much time she’s been spending drunk. 

Adam is still there. So is Yang. They’re clearer in the light, and just as hard to deal with, but there’s more nuance, too - she understands abuse, understands how it warps and withers. And she also understands that abuse doesn’t make her blameless. In the end, she’s still the common link; without her, there’d be no Adam; without her carelessness, there’d be no gunshot. It’s her. It’s her. It’s her--

Sun says something, but she doesn’t catch it, and he cups her face in his hands. 

“Blake,” he says, steady and firm, forcing her to meet his eyes.

She blinks once, twice. “What?” 

“I was reading all these articles,” he says, and removes his hands now that he has her attention, “about trauma, and PTSD, and all that shit. I think you’re dissociating. It’s when--”

“I know what it is,” she interrupts, abruptly irritated with him. He’s always so close to understanding her until he isn’t. “And I think you’re wrong.” 

She doesn’t tell him anything more, doesn’t tell him it’s the opposite: that she feels everything so intensely she swears it’s happening to her all over again.

\--

The technical run-through goes fine. It’s not excellent, or anything, but it isn’t supposed to be - it’d be ridiculous of them to expend the same energy for a practice as they would for the show itself. 

They don’t go to a bar afterwards; Sun makes sure of it, though everyone else seems to be in on his plan as well. Neptune says he’s going to take a nap, since it’s only the early evening, and Ilia wants to shower before dinner.

“I’ll text you in like an hour,” Sun says as they part ways on their floor. “If you’re hungry, we’ll grab something to eat. Okay?” 

“Okay,” she says dully, and there’s no use in arguing. There’s only so much she can fight at once. 

\--

She’s lying on her back on the hotel bed, still in her clothes from after the sound test. There’s a shirt of Yang’s sitting on the dresser and it’s one of the few that still smell like her. She doesn’t have the energy to move.

 _im coming to ur room,_ Sun texts, and she raises the phone above her face to read. _let me in in a min._

 _Ok,_ she answers. She knows that this, too, is her own fault - she barely remembers her drunken breakdown on the bus, only bits and pieces coated in a hazy glow, like the moon shattered over the floor. She knows she must’ve told him, must’ve let it spill out of her, must’ve become water. 

She wonders if he counts on her breaking, thinks she’ll sneak out of the hotel and to a club like a teenager in rebellion. He’d never apologized for what he’d said to her at the bar. She’s never asked him to.

The knock at her door comes, and all she can think of is throwing it open and screaming at him. Thinks about telling him this kind of control is just as bad as Adam’s. She should be _allowed,_ she wants to say. She should be _allowed._

Except it wouldn’t be true; it’d just be cruel. 

She forces herself up and just sits on the edge of the bed, exhausted, overwhelmed, brain like foam and receding. She can’t retain thought for long, can’t retain feeling - it all rushes in and out like the back of the tide, hanging onto the moon. She wanes with the details. Sometimes it’s the gun; sometimes it’s the smell of blood. Sometimes it’s Yang in her dress, moments before the shot. 

Sun knocks again, louder. “I’m coming,” she calls, and finally walks over, her feet like concrete. The carpet is a swirling shade of blue-white, and reminds her of the ocean. Sink, she thinks. Sink me. 

She throws it open carelessly, and the second she does, her weariness transitions instantly into pure shock - she’d settled on blood, but now it drains from her body, leaves her weightless and detached; she _doesn’t_ sink, she solidifies in place, stunned. There’s no ocean underfoot. She’s surrounded by walls and a ceiling and the only door is blocked. 

“Hi,” Yang murmurs, voice catching on an inhale. 

Yang is _here,_ standing in front of her, and that’s all Blake has time to process before she steps forward and into the room - Blake automatically jerks away, takes several unsteady steps back as if afraid of getting too close, of how it’ll feel when she does - her instinct says she’s hallucinating, and her logic says she’s done too much of that the past two months and Yang’s never looked anything like this - her hands are clean - there isn’t enough screaming--

And then Yang closes the door gently behind her. The click of the lock sliding into place sounds like a hammer to a coffin. 

Blake can only stare, eyes wide and disbelieving, lips parted without words. Yang doesn’t make a move any closer, just waits for the black and white to rise on instinct because it’s easiest, waits for the default of emotion; is it love, is it anger, is it fear. 

She looks incredible, she looks terrible: her hair is tucked into a messy bun, random strands curling around her face in a frame; her eyeliner is probably a day or two old, the rest of her face bare. She’s wearing a slightly-oversized knitted black sweater, ripped jeans, and her favorite pair of scuffed brown boots. She’s never really been the type to develop bags under her eyes when she’s tired, but her exhaustion reveals itself in other ways: her mouth is soft instead of firm, her jaw lacking tightness, her arms loose at her sides. There’s an edge she’s on; Blake’s been there before, and it’s dull. Sometimes that hurts worse.

“Hi,” Yang says again, quietly. 

“What are you doing here?” is the only thing Blake manages to reply, weak and insecure to her own ears. 

“I want to talk,” Yang says, bottom lip sliding into her mouth. Eyes like falling stars, trailing Blake’s skin with the memory of what’s underneath, what’s changed about it. 

“I don’t,” Blake replies instantly. She knows exactly what Yang’ll say, and she knows how it’ll break her. How it’ll make her feel better, make her think guilt never should’ve belonged to her at all. “Please. Please don’t do this.” 

“You owe me this,” Yang says, and she’s debilitating in her vulnerability. She _needs_ this. Maybe it’s all she’s ever needed. “You owe me this _one_ thing, Blake.” 

Her name in Yang’s mouth - already it’s enough to crumble the tallest castles. She thinks of withstanding time - thinks of canyons and mountains and caves, ancient ruins and walls - _Blake,_ Yang says, and it all flattens itself back into the earth. “No,” she whispers, shaking. She’s backed up to the bed. “No.” 

For a moment, all they can do is stare at each other; Blake’s heart is slicing through her skin in the silence. She can’t hear anything but a roaring in her ears, like she’s on stage facing a crowd. Yang’s too blinding, too overpowering, too beautiful--

“Fine,” Yang says suddenly, and her eyes darken, voice dropping dangerously. Blake swallows, fights the urge to run again, like her flight or fight instinct is tailored to Yang’s expression. “You don’t wanna talk about this, we won’t. Show me instead.” 

“Show you what?” Blake breathes out, trapped between the boundaries of wanting: wanting to kiss her, wanting to push her away. Wanting to pull her close and say, _I wish I’d been born as the color of your eyes, the lines of your palm. Something that never had the ability to hurt you._

“You think I don’t follow the gossip?” Yang asks, pitch still dark. “You think I haven’t see you out at clubs in every city you’ve played in, buying some different girl a drink? Talking a guy up at a bar?” 

“So?” Blake challenges, reacting viscerally. She’ll follow any emotion that keeps her mouth moving. “I can do whatever I want.” 

“I didn’t say you couldn’t,” Yang bites back. “You wanna act like I’m nothing to you except someone you used to fuck, fine. Do it again. I’m here. Let’s see this wild side of yours, _Blake_.” 

For one split, terrible second, Blake almost doesn’t give in.

She’s almost able to lie to herself, say _no, you’ve done enough, don’t let me come any closer_ \- but it’s in that same second that she _looks_ at Yang, really looks at her, and that’s her first, second, third mistake.

Because underneath the anger and betrayal and frustration - underneath the beauty of her, the danger, the ruin - she’s _home._ She’s trembling, and she’s an inch away from fracturing at the edges, her skin in a state of unravel, veins like cracks in glass - but she’s home.

And Blake may have left her once, but she’ll never have the strength to do it again.

So she steps forward, heart too high in her chest, lungs too short for breath; takes Yang’s face in her hands, and kisses her. 

It isn’t like time stops; that’s never been the case for the two of them. It’s like time doesn’t exist at all. It’s too rigid and inflexible, and it doesn’t explain why two months feels simultaneously like a lifetime and the blink of an eye. It doesn’t explain why she suddenly swears she kissed Yang only this morning over the page of a new song, or why the last time she held Yang’s hand was so long ago all her songs were poems, published in books. She thinks of stars and civilizations; thinks of revolutions and renaissances. 

Yang parts her lips, sucks Blake’s bottom lip into her mouth, hands knotting in her hair. Her cheeks are damp, salt dripping over Blake’s fingers. In spite of everything, all she finally feels is right.

Oh, from that first minute, Blake thinks, kissing her as if it’s all she can ever remember _._ From that first second. From forever.

\--

Yang’s sweater finds its way to the floor. Kicks her boots off haphazardly. Her jeans, unbuttoned and tugged down her legs. Blake can’t keep her mouth to herself; Yang doesn’t want her to. She strips Blake’s own shirt overhead, does it slowly, watches every centimeter of skin she reveals. Unhooks her bra. Slips her underwear off. Stares at her unblinkingly, lips red and parted in awe, and Blake understands. 

She nudges Yang onto her back, lips slanting together again and tongues brushing, there’s something burning inside of her but it’s killing her, too, like clearing brush before a wildfire, and Yang’s hair spreads against her pillow, throat bare and arched, arms above her head--

It’s the scar that does it, the sight of the jagged line of tissue standing out against her skin that forces Blake to pause, confront a memory she’d buried moments after living it, dirt shifting around a freshly-dug grave.

She stares down, unblinking, her ribcage vibrating around her lungs, and she can taste the air of the hospital room, see the unsettling off-white color of the walls, the hum of machines. She smells the blood, remembers the screaming, remembers realizing it was coming from her own mouth.

“I didn’t,” she says blankly, staring. Her voice sounds hollow, empty.

“What?” Yang asks, sensing the shift. She lifts herself onto her elbows, the motion stretching at the skin; it pulls taut, red and raw. Blake can’t feel herself breathing. 

“I didn’t,” she repeats again, still in that same vacant tone, and she finally hears the void she’s become. Her vision blurs, tears welling in her eyes. “I didn’t kiss any of them. I didn’t even touch them.” She can’t look away from Yang’s arm. “Like I _could_. Like I could stop thinking about you long enough to do _any_ of that.” 

The scar burns itself into her retinas, the vivid outline like a rupture across her own eyelids. She inhales once, chokes, and Yang’s skin underneath her fingers is suddenly wet, and Blake can’t see, can barely hear, her heart in her throat like she’s going to throw it up; vaguely, Yang’s voices hums in the background, but understanding it is like trying to pull words from white noise - her teeth dig into her bottom lip, throat closing around every mistake she’s ever made - Yang’s hands are against her face, in her hair, and then she’s gathering Blake up in her arms, scooting back against the headboard, Blake’s face buried in her shoulder. 

Distantly, Blake realizes she’s sobbing, violent with her chest heaving, breath punctuated and forced; Yang pulls the sheet up over her shoulders, rocks her. “I’m sorry,” she says again and again like it’s the only phrase she’s ever learned to speak. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry--”

“Shh,” Yang comforts quietly, smoothing her hair away from her cheeks. “You don’t have to say anything.”

“I love you,” Blake weeps instead, fingers clutching at Yang so tightly she’s sure it’s hurting her, but Yang doesn’t complain, doesn’t move her away, just sits and holds her like it’s her own life at stake. “I - I love you more than I’ve ever - loved _anyone_.”

Yang remains silent for a moment. Blake tucks her face against the crook of Yang’s neck, waits for the echo back, waits for anything through her tears. 

“I wish you’d done this in the first place,” Yang finally murmurs, her lips against the shell of Blake’s ear, one hand cradling the back of her head. “Just come to me and cry.” 

\--

 _So?_ Weiss texts him. _Have you heard anything?_

 _no,_ he answers. _n_ _i dont know if thats a good thing or not._

\--

“Baby,” Yang whispers to her, over and over and over again, Blake still held tightly in her arms. Her sobbing has quieted to the kind of crying that turns brutal and silent in its intensity, the salt on Yang’s skin purely from her tears and not the sweat of sex. “I’m here.” 

“I’m sorry,” Blake says again, choking on the words, gagging on her heart in her mouth - she heaves violently against it, but all it does it spur a rush of new tears, muscles locking around regret. Yang rubs a hand up and down her spine, fingers of her other hand buried in Blake’s hair; it’s how she used to hold Blake to calm her down, comfort her. It would’ve worked the night of the party, even the morning after. Now, it reminds her of everything she’d thrown away.

“Blake,” Yang says gently, “look at me.” 

Her eyes are red, tired, bloodshot. She hasn’t slept properly in weeks. She looks about as terrible as she feels, but Yang only smiles - soft like the color of her eyes, soft like skin - and tucks a strand of hair behind her ear, palm coming to rest against her cheek.

“What?” Blake asks, voice hoarse. 

“I don’t blame you.” Yang says the words so slowly, so matter-of-fact, she leaves almost no room for denial. “I know that _you_ blame you. And I know _why._ But I’m here and I’m telling you that I don’t, and I never did.”

“How?” Blake whispers miserably. “He even - he _told_ me it was my fault. He was _my_ \- part of _my_ past. He was--” 

“--Abusive,” Yang finishes, her fingers trailing down Blake’s cheek to her jaw. She takes Blake’s chin between her thumb and the side of her index finger, tilting her head up. “He abused you for years and made you believe things that weren’t true. What he did - everything he did - is all on _him,_ not you, no matter _what_ he told you.” 

“I want to believe you,” she says, still in that bare, aching voice. “But I - I don’t know _how._ Yang, he - he said that to me, and then he _shot_ you.” The panic rises, a trigger to a flood. “I stood there and watched him _shoot_ you--” 

“Shh,” Yang says instantly again, pressing a kiss to her mouth - it’s one of the few things to quell the unrelenting spiral of her thoughts; a brief moment of peace in between every version of reality. Yang kisses her, and her mind is blissfully blank. “Baby.” 

It’s that, more than anything, that keeps her hanging on. She feels the tears slipping out of her eyes, dripping from her chin to her chest, but she focuses on Yang’s forgiving hands, her tender gaze, her yielding, gentle tone. 

“I’m right here,” Yang says, thumbs stroking Blake’s high cheekbones. They’re still pressed together, bare in every sense of the phrase. “I’m not in that hotel room anymore. And neither are you. And Adam - he can’t ever touch either of us again.” 

Adam, buried somewhere under cold, hard earth. Adam, who nobody mourned. Dead. Maybe he isn’t gone - maybe he never will be - but he’s exactly where he belongs.

“Oh, God, you’re alive,” Blake whispers, drops her forehead to Yang’s and inhales unsteadily, fingers spreading against her cheeks. The sheet slips down to her hips, but Yang’s arms wrap back around her, tug her close. She can count each rib, but that’s fixable. That’s what’s to come. “You’re here.” 

“I’m alive,” Yang murmurs, meeting her gaze, so magnified her tears look like beadwork to her eyelashes, framing the gold of her irises. “I’m okay, and you’ll be okay, too. I promise. I _promise._ ” 

It’s all too good to be true, but that’s been Yang from the very beginning; the closer she is, the harder and harder it is to hear the haunting of him:his bitter, biting words and his fists closing around blame, striking with it as a weapon. The closer she is, the easier it is to forget. It’s why Blake’d ran in the first place. Some things, she’d thought then, should never be forgotten.

“And together.” Blake doesn’t have a right to ask and she’s asking anyway. “Will we be okay together?” 

Yang sighs, but she’s smiling. “Belladonna,” she says, and now there’s a lightness to her tone, a sweet impatience, “I didn’t fly six hours across the country to dump you officially.” 

“Shut up,” Blake manages, her own smile watery and thick. “You flew first class.” 

“Yeah, but it was so last minute I was on like, United. Seats didn’t even recline all the way.” 

“Oh, how terrible.” She can feel it growing, something close to laughter. Her arms still curled around Yang’s neck, cradled in her lap. “You must’ve suffered.” 

“I did.” Yang utters it softly, more seriously than Blake expects. She tilts her head, bumps their noses together, finds Blake’s mouth again with a kiss. “And you were worth every second.” 

Night has fallen outside their window; they’re too high up to hear the busy noises of the street below. She traces the outline of Yang’s scar, the raised skin that’ll fade to an indent, the jagged edges that’ll disappear to smaller lines. “Don’t say that,” she says, but it’s resigned more than argumentative. “I don’t want to be.”

Yang adjusts her on her lap - stretches out a leg, settles Blake even closer against her. She looks content in spite of it all, and maybe that’s what speaks the loudest of all. The absolute certainty of her. “You remember when we went to Aroma like, two days after we met?” 

“Yeah.” 

“Do you remember what I told you?” 

Yes, she almost says. It’s you. I’ll never forget a single thing about you. It’s you. You. _You._

“You’re not a burden,” Yang says without waiting for an answer, and a sunny morning in the back of a cafe sifts through the ashes to the forefront of Blake’s mind. She remembers the garden, remembers their number, remembers their order. Remembers Yang’s sunglasses and sneakers, how she’d pressed against Blake’s side to read the menu. How she’d looked across the table and said what she’s saying now. “Okay? You’re not a burden.”

So long ago, so far away, and miraculously still true. Maybe everything else is, too. 

\--

They spend the rest of the night in bed, tangled together and fingers moving patiently between each other’s thighs. Mouths in the crooks of necks and dipping low to collarbones, hipbones. I missed you, Yang says from between her legs, tongue slipping smoothly against her. God, I missed you. Blake doesn’t throw her head back; she watches Yang’s head bob, watches her eyelashes flutter as her eyes shut, watches her lick her lips and revel in the taste.

She doesn’t comment on the weight Blake’s lost, and Blake doesn’t comment on the spasm of her hand - just wraps it between her own, and presses a gentle kiss to the scarred flesh of Yang’s upper arm.

This time, Yang’s the one who cries. 

\--

“What time do you have to be at the theatre?” 

“Seven,” Blake answers idly, running a brush through her wet hair at the foot of the bed. She’s wrapped only in a towel, tucked around her chest. “We go on at--”

“--Nine.” Yang smiles sweetly, and Blake’s heart flutters around the room. “I remember.” 

She bites her lip, lets the brush drop to the bed. “You’ll come, right?” she asks, and hates the uncertainty in her voice. It’s her way of saying _stay._ She still doesn’t feel like she’s in a place to make demands. 

But Yang only tosses her head back lightly and laughs - that’s the view, Blake’s hit instantly with a thousand similar recollections, like a scrapbook titled _things I’ve missed about you most of all_ \- the arch of her throat, her jawline, her teeth glinting through her smile. “Well, considering the album’s about me,” she says playfully, “I think it’s about time I got to see the show in person, don’t you?” 

_Yes._ She can’t say it aloud, afraid the weight of relief will drown her. She curls her fingers around the back of Yang’s neck, and pulls her in for a kiss. _Yes._

\--

Nobody sees them leave the hotel, and nobody sees them enter the theatre. 

Her hand’s tucked into Yang’s; she’s not sure how she’ll ever let go of her again. Not sure how she ever managed to in the first place. Yang’s wearing a maroon pullover hoodie, her blonde hair hidden underneath the hood; Blake’s in a black zip-up one, hanging open and not hiding much of anything. They’ve both got their sunglasses on. Blake’s combat boots have her back at five-eight, and her crop top reveals her scar. 

I’m done, she’d said to Yang, working her ripped black jeans up her legs. I’m done with treating myself exactly like Adam wanted me to.

She doesn’t feel completely like herself again, but it’s the closest she’s come in long, long time. 

\--

“Have you heard anything?” Weiss asks Sun under her breath, the same question she’s asked him every three minutes since they’d arrived at the theatre. They’re backstage in the wings; Ilia’s sitting on a portable amp, tapping her drumsticks repeatedly against her knee. Neptune’s just staring at the stage, where the opening act is setting up. 

“No,” Sun says tiredly. He’d barely slept, waiting for his phone to vibrate. “I’ll tell you if I do.” 

“What if we ruined it?” Weiss asks, pacing with her nails digging into her palms. She nearly runs headfirst into a man carrying a guitar and barely even notices. “What if Blake saw her and lost it? What if we triggered some horrible PTSD episode by sending Yang to her hotel room? What if--” 

“Oh my God,” Sun breathes out suddenly, his eyes locked over Weiss’s shoulder. 

“I know!” she exclaims, throwing up her hands. “We didn’t even _think_ of the possible trauma we’d be incurring - the _torment_ \- what if she doesn’t show up at all? What if--”

“Weiss,” Neptune says, wide-eyed gaze trained on the exact same spot, “turn around.” 

Everything about Hollywood is fake; she’s aware of this. She’s spent enough time watching Yang remove twenty layers of makeup and helped Pyrrha memorize enough lines to get a pretty good grasp of the truth. But there’s no other way to describe what she experiences upon doing what she’s told - the sudden hush of the world, how her vision tunnels in and everything else dulls to grey. It’s exactly like a scene straight out of a movie.

It takes her five, ten, twenty seconds to comprehend what she’s seeing, and then even her tears feel scripted, choreographed. 

Standing by the door, flashing their I.D.’s to security, are Blake and Yang. Together. They way they’re supposed to be. 

_BlakeandYang_ , with their fingers intertwined, with their bodies in orbit, with their movements so in tune it’s their own kind of music. _BlakeandYang_ , wearing their own clothes, wearing their own skin, wearing their own mistakes and triumphs and evolutions. Blake lifts her sunglasses off her face, tucks them into the collar of her shirt. Yang keeps hers on, but she murmurs something too low for anyone else to hear, and Blake smiles. 

Smiles. Actually smiles. Sun bites his own lip, runs his palm back and forth across Weiss’s shoulder blades. He can’t tell her not to cry when he’s on the verge of doing the same thing.

And then Yang tugs gently on Blake’s hand, leans into her ear, whispers softly - Weiss swears she’s intruding on something intensely personal and private, that’s how they’ve always felt to her, something so great they almost ache to look at - a moment later and Blake’s head turns to them, her expression unreadable from a distance. 

They move closer, in sync and step. Yang doesn’t say anything to them; she doesn’t need to. Blake’s the one who makes the first move - shifts away from Yang’s side, their fingers parting at the last possible second - her other hand finds the damp curve of Weiss’s cheek, brushes a thumb beneath her eye, and in the dull light it comes away wet. 

Somehow, Weiss’s arms end up around her, and then Sun’s follow, enveloping them both, and then they’re all tangled together and half-laughing, half-crying, burying Blake between them like a barrier against everything she’s been carrying alone. She smells like hotel shampoo and the bags under her eyes have faded, a testament to how drastically one night and the right person can change everything. Just the way one night and the wrong person did to begin with.

When she looks at each of them in turn, it’s like she’s finally seeing them again. 

“I’m sorry,” she murmurs, and the rest of the world disappears around them. The stagehands, the sound technicians, the lighting assistants. The crowds and the music and the laughter. “I’m so, so sorry.” 

“I’m sorry, too,” Sun says, eyes downcast. “I’m sorry for - for a lot of things.”

“I’m so sorry,” Weiss echoes, grasping at the fabric of her hoodie. “I’m sorry I didn’t understand. I’m sorry I thought about giving up.” 

“Shh,” Blake says, hand gentle at the back of Weiss’s head. From behind them, Yang only watches on, smiling. “You don’t have to apologize. It wasn’t your fault, okay?” She glances between them. “It wasn’t - it wasn’t your fault.” 

It wasn’t your fault, she says, but her voice flutters in her throat, a flicker of wings and a shaking branch. It wasn’t your fault, she says, and she’s talking to herself just as much as she’s talking to them. 

\--

Yang watches the show from backstage, sings every word to every song. Blake can’t stop herself from meeting her eyes every time she turns to face the wings, quick fleeting glances, mouth curling at the corners. Her voice comes back to her without its sharp edges, no longer sounds like it’s tearing at her throat just to be sung. 

_It’s not about the long and winding road,_ comes the bridge in _Alone Together,_ and the entire audience screams the lyrics along. _It’s all about my bed and the imprint of your soul._

In her opinion, it’s the best show they’ve ever played, period.

\--

 **becca** @ _musicalmenagerie_ · 10m  
YANG

 **becca** @ _musicalmenagerie_ · 10m  
YANG XIAO LONG IS HERE TONIGHT AT THE SHOW

 **becca** @ _musicalmenagerie_ · 10m  
IM FUCKING LOSINGMY MIND SHE S BACKSTAGE I SAW HER I COULD SEE HER IM SITTING IN THE FAR.MEZZANINE

 **IT’S RAE** @ _ringsoversaturn_ · 9m  
**__** _Replying to @musicalmenagerie_  
BITCH EXCUSE ME

 **Georgia** @ _ohjustsayit_ · 9m  
**__** _Replying to @musicalmenagerie_  
WHAT WAITHWAT WHATWHAT 

**leave blake belladonna alone** @ _1800thatbitch_ · 8m  
**__** _Replying to @musicalmenagerie_  
NO 

**becca** @ _musicalmenagerie_ · 7m  
**__** _Replying to @1800thatbitch_  
YES IM FUCKIGN LOOKING AT HER ITS HER I SWEAR ITS HER

 **leave blake belladonna alone** @ _1800thatbitch_ · 6m  
**__** _Replying to @musicalmenagerie_  
OH YM GFUKIGN GOD!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! YANG AND BLAKE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

\--

After the show, she runs straight into Yang’s arms, exactly where she belongs. Legs wrapped around her waist, helping carry her own weight. Yang’s hands around her thighs, lips on hers, and not a single thing about either of them is unsteady.

Nobody wants to interrupt them, but--

“We aren’t going to be able to get you both out unseen,” Weiss says, checking her phone worryingly. “Yang, they know you’re here - apparently you were noticed from the far mezzanine. It’s out of control.” 

“Fine,” Yang says, drops her lips to Blake’s hair, lets her forehead follow. “Then let them see us.”

Weiss stares up at them, and she’s struck almost by a sense of deja-vu; they’re towering over her, but most people do. They’re effortlessly gorgeous, dangerous, models for a fashion campaign in complementary colors; Blake’s high cheekbones and Yang’s full mouth. All the curves between them, all the edges. 

“Okay,” Weiss agrees. 

They make their exit through the stage door; the hallway is dark, and the alley it leads to is only well-lit closer to the barricades, where it looks like half the theatre has chosen to stand and wait. Sun, Ilia, and Neptune walk out first - there’s applause, a mild screaming, but other than that, the crowd seems to be holding its breath. Wistful and waiting and wanting. 

Blake comes next, takes a step on the pavement, and turns around with a hand extended into the shadows; Yang’s fingers settle comfortably through hers, following. They’re both smiling as she steps into the light, immediately recognizable, and every single person there erupts. 

They aren’t permitted to sign autographs that night, but Blake doubts their fans are disappointed. 

\--

(She’ll replay that video for years to come - someone’s shaky, unfocused phone camera capturing Yang’s hand slipping into hers as they slip out of the building, the delight and embarrassment on both of their faces, and the love - evident in each perfectly timed step, every brush of their shoulders, and the kiss Yang presses to her head as they’re heading to the car.)

\--

Yang stays the entire weekend. They curl up in each other’s arms and spill whatever threatens to pour; sometimes it’s Adam, things he used to whisper to Blake that haunt her now. Sometimes it’s Yang, all the nights she spent alone and watching Blake’s activity on Spotify. Sometimes it’s regret. A lot of it is regret.

I won’t leave again, Blake repeats over and over, into the early hours of the morning.

I know you won’t, Yang says back, meeting Blake’s eyes so she knows she means it.

-

It’s hard to say goodbye to her at the airport, but it’s only for a short time - “I can’t miss my physical therapy appointment,” she admits, grimacing. “My trainer’ll beat my ass.”

“Teach me how to help you,” Blake says softly. “I want to help you, too.”

“You’re already doing it.” 

She wraps her arms around Yang’s waist, tilts her head up and waits to be kissed. She doesn’t care who sees. Their lips meet, a sigh of summer in the air.

Yang buys a flight to D.C. the minute she gets through security, and two days later they’re together again. She shows Blake stretches to help work her arm, rebuild her muscles. Rests her palm over Blake’s heart and feels it beat. 

Anything can be rebuilt, she murmurs, as long as you know how.

\--

It’s a pattern that develops. Yang flies home for her necessary appointments, but otherwise follows Blake on tour, just as she’d always meant to. Watches her perform night after night, watches her work the crowd like her guitar. 

And when it’s over, Yang waits for her to press too close and too hot and slip into her mouth like the devil.

They’re careful not to cross any lines. They pretend they’ll move slowly. Won’t push each other how they used to until they’re ready. They’re be soft and smooth and pliable, instead of snapping tension like a whip. They’ll kiss without too many teeth and won’t leave marks. They’ll get there. It’s okay if it’s not now, not tonight. 

But Blake’s lips are a dark, wicked red in Chicago, and her hair’s curled delicately over her shoulder, eyeliner blending into smoke. She’s irresistible on purpose. She’s Yang’s and Yang’s only, and oh, it’s been too long since Yang’s been allowed to prove that.

“Slow,” Blake manages a laugh, her palms flat against the dressing-room sink as she watches herself grind down onto Yang’s fingers in the mirror. “So that was a fucking a lie.”

“Like you weren’t begging me for it,” Yang murmurs against the shell of her ear, and drops her mouth to the crook of her neck. Blake reaches up, twines her hand through Yang’s hair and tightens it. Teeth nip at her skin in warning.

“Oh, no,” Blake says breathlessly. “I absolutely was.”

\--

She ends up with a hickey she doesn’t have time to cover. The fans go wild with that one.

\--

The tour ends in a blur - Seattle, Portland, San Francisco, Los Angeles. Yang’s at every show, and now she’s expected to be. People look for a glance of her backstage, shyly ask her for autographs if they’re lucky enough to share the VIP area. Buzzfeed creates a column dedicated to sightings for fun, and it becomes so popular that Nora starts sending her screenshots for every new entry and typing _SPOTTED!!!_ or _XOXO GOSSIP GIRL._ Once, she makes a video zooming in on a fan’s photo of them out at a bar with the X-Files theme music playing. 

They’re home, but it’s a different venue. They’re a bigger name, fitting thousands instead of hundreds. But the crowd, she realizes, staring out at the sea of lights during _Burning the Candle,_ is the same. 

“Neptune,” she says. They’re waiting in the wings to return for the encore.

“Yeah?” 

“You know how you always said L.A. shows were the best?” 

“Yeah,” he says, winking. “Home crowd, baby.” 

She thinks of Yang in the audience a year and a half ago, leaning against a balcony railing and throwing her heart onstage instead of applause. Standing in the doorway with an adorably flustered look on her face, lips with an invitation. Touching Blake and finding the rest of her life. 

“You were right,” Blake says, and she’s smiling.

\--

They fall into old habits, but they make entirely new ones, too. She officially moves in one week before Ruby moves out, and the days in between are a mess of packing, unpacking, and packing again when they accidentally confuse their boxes. Weiss and Pyrrha come over with a label-maker. Yang thinks they have a little too much fun with it, but lets them be. 

They redecorate; purples and golds start to find their way into the color scheme. Blake switches out lampshades and rugs. Yang wants more colorful bowls. They mutually decide to Marie Kondo the closet, but they let Coco come over and take the reigns on that. Pictures change their positions on the walls and additions find their place. Sometimes, they’d noticed, fans caught some _great_ photos - Blake locking eyes with her in the wings during their show in Boston, her silhouette framed in blue light from a balcony as Blake sings on stage. 

Ruby’s moved to Beverly Flats with her best friend Penny; a journalist jokingly asks her if it’s nice finally having privacy and she says, “For them, yeah. But I’m asexual, so I’m probably just gonna get a dog.” He doesn’t seem to know what to do with that.

Yang’s scar fades; turns white and indented and round, the incision site smoother than the rest of her skin. It’s still noticeable - she won’t be able to wear anything without longer sleeves without it being visible, but she never thinks about alternatives. Doesn’t think about cosmetics or cover-ups. Some things, she says, we need to learn to accept as part of us, rather than pretend they aren’t there. Even if they’re bad things. Even if they hurt.

“Nice line,” Blake says, grinning, “but my therapist told _me_ something similar, too. If we don’t accept them, we can’t move on from them.” 

“Shit,” Yang says. “I totally could’ve come up with that, though. I’m deep.” 

“Totally,” Blake agrees.

“You’re making fun of me.” 

“Never,” she says stoically. “You’re the deepest bitch I know, baby.” 

Yang snorts into laughter. “I hate you.”

“Now who’s the liar?”

\--

Exactly one month after Blake starts regular therapy, she thinks about getting a haircut. It’s the end of August and it’s _insanely_ hot - climate change, Yang says, her own hair up in a bun - and she thinks she might be ready for a change. 

And two months after that, she actually follows through with it. 

Her curls fall just past her chin, and the minute Yang sees her, she’s struck like stone, struck like a car wrapping around a telephone pole. She stands in their entryway and stares, stares, stares; it’d almost make Blake self-conscious if she weren’t already familiar with the forms of Yang’s reverence, the expressions she takes moments before worship.

And then Blake’s slammed against the back of the door with her newly-short hair scrunched up in Yang’s fists, Yang’s lips on hers and kissing her earnestly until Blake has no choice but to laugh into her mouth. 

“So you like it?” 

“No.”

“No?”

“Yeah.”

“Yeah?” 

“No.” She kisses Blake again, and her smile shines strongly enough to rival the sun itself. “Before you keep this going, no, I don’t like it. I love it. It’s _you_. Of course I love it.”

\--

 _Out of Fire_ gets a premiere date for the fall - they’d opted against competing with Yang’s own summer blockbuster, and the end of October finds the cast reunited for a screening. Blake’s on her arm, drop-dead gorgeous in a strapless dress with a deep purple bodice that fades into a long, white skirt. Nebula’s still dating Dew, and nothing about her has changed despite the success she’s come to the past year. Well, Yang’d always had a good feeling about her. 

Yang holds her hand throughout the film, and as expected, Blake cries when her character and Nebula’s character kiss. To her surprise, Weiss cries, too. 

“You?” Yang says, blinking perplexedly at her. 

“It’s touching!” she defends, taking the tissue Pyrrha hands her and dabbing at her eyes. “They were _meant_ for each other! I’m not _heartless,_ Yang!” 

“I know!” Blake wails, clutching Weiss’s free hand. “You should read the book!” 

“I love my fans,” Yang says, straight-faced, and everyone sighs in exasperation - though it at least distracts from the crying. 

“Shut up, asshole,” Nebula says. “Blake, you really let her fuck you with that ego?” 

“Not anymore,” Blake replies, her smile sinister and sweet.

(That’s a threat that doesn’t turn out to be even _remotely_ true.)

\--

It’s strange, how easily time passes with routine. With trauma. With healing. 

Another year, another movie, another song - Menagerie’s debuting their third studio album, titled _The Weight of Memory,_ and Yang’s on final callbacks for a period piece that would shoot in Scotland, were she to get the part. It’d be months on location, but it’d coincide with the band’s tour. She sees it as a sign, an opportunity. Success belongs to both of them.

They’ve both worked harder than ever before to get where they are. Blake still has nights where his voice is louder than her own, and she breathes steadily in and out while reminding herself of the good things she’s allowed to have. Sudden, unexpected noises still steel into the tremors of Yang’s hand, but no longer drag her back into the night that caused them. 

And when they do, they’re still together, and they don’t mind reminding each other what’s real. Blake doesn’t mind straddling her, sinking down onto her fingers, rocking her hips. Yang doesn’t mind opening her thighs tasting her after, stroking her tongue slowly, patiently. Until it’s the only thing either of them can think about. 

It hasn’t been easy. But it’s theirs.

\--

Yang gets the role, and Menagerie’s tour dates are cemented down. They overlap almost entirely, save for a few shows at the very beginning of the tour - aside from that, any visits are going to be few and far between. 

They’re trying to be okay with that. Trying not to think of Blake’s last tour, where Yang was in none of the places she should’ve been, and nowhere felt like home. 

Menagerie’s first shows are in Los Angeles this time, rather than ending there. _SOMEONE LIKE YOU,_ the title of both their first single off the album and their tour, is splashed in neon light against the stage wall. Yang’s sitting in the VIP area; she wants the full view, she’d said, see it how it’s supposed to be seen. After that, backstage is fair game. 

They have a few tables to themselves - Pyrrha’s there with Weiss, whispering soothing things into her ear as she attempts to drown what looks like a glass of straight vodka; Nora and Ren are at another, and Yang’s pretty sure he keeps secretly vaping like a few others in the crowd. Ruby’s explaining something about the set design to Penny, gesturing at the lights, which suddenly dim.

The silhouettes of four people take to the stage. Ilia, in the back on the drums; Sun with his guitar, and Neptune with his bass; and then - finally - with her own guitar--

After all this time, she never gets over the rush of the first note, the lights blinding as they reignite the stage. Never gets over Blake’s mouth against the microphone and her breath between words, singing everything she used to think she’d never say. Never gets over the otherworldliness of her, playing in front of a crowd and _belonging._

Her soul is on that stage, in that music. And so is Yang’s.

\--

“Good one tonight,” Ilia says backstage, tightening her ponytail. “ _Really_ good. Damn.”

“Yeah,” Blake agrees, wired and strung-out the way she normally is after a show. “Are you showering?” 

“Nah,” Ilia says, and grins. “I’m gonna use my own shower while I have the chance.” 

“Fair.” 

“See you tomorrow.” 

Blake packs her bag, slings it over her shoulder, and heads back out of her dressing room. The crowd’s still piling out in the theatre itself; she can hear their footfalls, their shouting, their laughter. Neptune’s walking around with Sun latched onto his back, legs wrapped around his waist in some pseudo-piggyback ride. He’s talking to Ilia over Neptune’s shoulder; Weiss is standing by, on the phone and discussing something about dinner reservations. 

And there’s Yang, standing by the exit with her phone in her hands, shooting out a quick text. As stunning as she always is, as she’s always been. “Hey,” Blake says, beaming automatically.

“Hey, baby,” Yang says, leaning in for a kiss and smiling against her mouth. “You were incredible. I’m obsessed. D’you - okay, this is like, _really_ awkward, but do you maybe wanna go out sometime?” 

“Oh, I don’t know,” Blake plays along. “I have a girlfriend. You’re hotter, though, so if you can keep a secret…”

“I think I can.” 

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“You sure?” 

“Yeah, pretty sure.”

Weiss snaps her head over, and catches Blake’s eye. Mimes murder with a finger across her throat. Blake shuts her mouth. “I think Weiss is about to kill us.”

“In that case,” Yang says, “ready to go home? We can continue this stimulating conversation in the comfort of our own bedroom.” 

Home. For some reason, now of all moments, it hits her - she takes a moment to dissect the concept, strip it down to its bare essentials - walls, a roof, a floor. A door that locked and a frame that wasn’t cracked. Curtains that let in light. That was all after Adam.

Further, on her own: furniture, photographs. Food in the refrigerator, the pantry. Dishes and silverware. Notebooks and a calendar. A jar of pens. A vase of flowers. Silence that didn’t have to be empty to be safe. 

And finally, with Yang came friends, and family, and freedom. A bed she owned a side of; a closet with her clothes. A morning routine and a workout regimen. Side streets faster than the freeways. A favorite coffee shop and a favorite bookstore. A car, a passport. Birthday party invitations and Christmas cards. 

Someone to pick her up at the airport; someone to hold her when it rained. Someone who’d stay awake until she fell asleep. Someone her heart would always, always return to. 

“Yeah,” she says, and threads their fingers together. “Let’s go home.” 

\--

A month and a half into the tour; they’re just passed their three-year anniversary. Yang can’t get away from work, and Blake’s in Boston, prepping for another show. They talk on the phone for as long as they possibly can - Yang says _I miss you,_ says _I wish you were here,_ says _when the fuck are you having an international tour._ Blake can only laugh, because if she doesn’t, she’ll cry. 

In a surprise twist of events, Blake’s parents make it to the concert; they’re in town for work, they tell her, and they didn’t want to pass up the opportunity. She gets them in without an issue, tries to get them a table upstairs. It’s tricky; most of them are reserved already. 

“Don’t worry about it,” Kali says, and shoos her off. “We’ll have a talk with this nice young man here and work it out while you go get ready.” 

Blake only shrugs and thinks nothing of it; her parents are stubborn that way, and she lets them be. She doesn’t notice the two red-heads hiding out at the bar, smiles ducking behind their menus. 

\--

They’re halfway through the show when the inexplicable occurs. She’s counting down to an intro when Sun glances to the left and hurriedly grabs his mic, accidentally smashing his palm against it and cutting her off. Neptune, strangely, seems relieved, tension in his neck and shoulders dropping; Ilia lowers her drumsticks and spins them. 

“Sorry,” Sun says, waving a hand to the audience, “sorry, everyone - I have a short interruption. There’s actually someone here I’d like to bring out on stage, if that’s okay.” 

Blake quirks her head, stares at him with her smile tilting quizzical. The crowd roars; she doesn’t have time to ask _who_ over the noise, and it doesn’t matter, anyway - because he turns, gestures at someone waiting in the wings, and Yang walks out into the light.

Blake’s heart springs into her lungs, becomes something she breathes. Jumps into her head, becomes all she can think. Her heart in her mouth and her eyes and her blood, uncontainable and overflowing. 

Last time she’d talked to Yang was just before the show, and it’d been nearly one in the morning in Edinburgh. Or so Yang’d said, punctuating her sentences with yawns, sleep gripping the edges of her voice. 

But then, Blake thinks in the back of her mind, she’s an _actress._

“What are you doing here?” she exhales into the mic, too consumed by the sight of the woman in front of her, drowning out the screaming theatre of thousands. God, she looks good, Blake can’t stop herself from noticing - it’s only been a little over a month since they’ve seen each other and it feels like it’s been twenty - Yang’s in tight, ripped black jeans tucked into black combat boots, but she’s wearing a red-and-yellow striped sweater underneath a washed-out red zip-up hoodie, light denim jacket over that; her hair’s loose and wild over her shoulders, her smile nearly dazzling. 

“I came to see Sun,” she says, and everyone in the crowd laughs. “I really missed him.”

“Cheers,” he calls from behind, water bottle raised to his lips. 

“Seriously,” Blake says, too winded to phrase it like a question. Her own smile’s so wide she can feel the pressure of it in her cheeks. “What are you - what are you _doing_ here?”

“Seriously?” Yang repeats, laughter on the underside of her tone, stepping even closer until she’s able to share the mic. She digs a hand into her pocket, pulls out a guitar pick. “I brought you this. I want you to use it for the rest of the show tonight.” 

“The show we’re currently in the middle of?” Blake jokes, but takes the pick from her easily. She can’t take her eyes off Yang, waiting for more - there’s some catch, there must be. 

“My flight was late,” Yang says, shrugs in lieu of an apology, and now there’s a tangible energy to her - ricocheting off her skin, the walls, the floor, the crowd, the music. “What d’you think?” She nods to the pick. 

And Blake finally glances down. It’s a purple fender, gemstone-patterned, just like the one she’d given Yang all those years ago, only one side is engraved with a single, simple statement. Not even a question, not even a request. There’s no doubt to it, not that there should be; they’d talked about it so often it’d almost been a given.

But now. But now. 

Blake’s smile freezes on her mouth, jaw falling slack. Lips parted over the words she’s reading. Eyes wide and watering, darting to Yang’s eyes and back. The audience starts to whisper, to point, to swell. 

Yang’s grin doesn’t shift at all. She’s entirely casual and at ease; she isn’t nervous for Blake’s response, only excited for it. She doesn’t get down on one knee, and she doesn’t pull out a velvet box - she merely lifts a hand to the microphone and says, “Marry me.” 

They don’t need rings and grandeur. They don’t need speeches and sentiments. They only need the same thing they’ve always needed: each other.

“Yes,” Blake replies instantly, because it isn’t something that even requires consideration. Yang could’ve asked her the day they’d met, and her answer wouldn’t have been any different. “Oh my God. Yes.” 

Someone woops from the stage - she thinks it’s Sun - before the crowd erupts and overpowers them, screaming themselves hoarse, chanting and cheering and their phones all out and on _record._ Yang cups her cheeks in her hands, brings her forward, meets her lips halfway in a kiss - there’s _home_ again, somewhere she hasn’t been since Yang had left, even without their own familiar walls, their floors, their bed. Yang kisses her and she’s coming home.

She thinks the entire venue must be on their feet, because it’s the only way she can explain her heart in her chest, thundering around like an earthquake.

\--

It’s a coincidence they even have it on. 

It’s some dumb news show on _E!_ that Yang’d caught once before by accident - the three hosts are presented with clips, or gossip, or articles, and they then proceed to discuss them together. The primary goal of it must be entertainment, since half the shit they find isn’t even remotely true. 

Blake’s about to change the channel when their names come up, and a pretty decent video of Yang’s proposal from someone who’d been very close to the stage pops on screen. Blake lowers the remote, smile already unfurling at a corner of her mouth. They both watch Yang traipse onstage, watch Blake’s delighted expression of surprise, watch Yang hand her the pick and Blake read it. Watch her say yes. Watch them both agree to be together for the rest of their lives, as if they hadn’t planned on doing that already. 

Two of the hosts are actually tearing up by the time the camera cuts back to them; it’s almost comical, the way they’re passing around the tissue box and patting each other’s backs. And then one of the women says, “It’s so funny. I feel like you rarely ever see a real-life Hollywood ending, but like, I feel like they’re it, you know?” 

“I was thinking that!” the man exclaims. “I’m not even joking. Like, remember that clip of Blake Belladonna from her last tour that we commented on? And it was so - it was like, devastating. And now it’s almost two years later and here they are.”

“Stop,” the other woman says thickly. “Seriously, you’re gonna make me cry again.” 

“I was rooting for them,” the first woman says. “Always. I just always felt like if anyone in this industry deserved to make it, it was them.” 

“Absolutely,” the man says. 

“Their story, up to that proposal, was honestly better than like, ninety percent of movies released this year,” the second woman says, and the other two snicker. “Someone should start writing the screenplay. The work’s basically done for you.” 

“Oh, wait, I love this,” the man says. “What’s your dream cast?” 

Blake shuts it off, and it flashes to a black screen. They catch each other’s expressions in the reflection, and promptly burst into laughter. 

“Pyrrha should play you,” Blake says, turning around and crawling up the bed to her, straddling her lap. She’s bright and uncontainable, that sky outside their window. Those city lights pouring into space. “You’re very interchangeable.” 

“I’ve heard that before,” Yang agrees, brushing Blake’s curls out of the way and cupping her face. “Wanna know my dream casting?” 

“Yes.” 

“You play you,” she says, and punctuates the sentence with a kiss, gentle and genuine, “and I play me. And we stay together for the rest of our lives.” 

Blake’s smile is too big to contain, her cheeks pressing against Yang’s palms. “I think you mean ‘and we live happily ever after.’”

“No,” Yang says, and twists into a frown, brow furrowed. “That’s cheesy. Stick to songs, baby. Don’t quit your day job.” 

“I’m going to sell your Oscar on eBay when we get home if you don’t shut the fuck up.” 

“I’m going to call _E!_ and tell them the engagement’s off.”

\--

 _Happily ever after_ is far too cliched of a phrase to describe anything, Yang thinks. It’s unrealistic, illogical, and inflexible. It’s for children and fairytales, not adults who know the truth of love and its capacity for suffering. For pain. For heartbreak. 

“How optimistic,” Blake says dryly. “Just what I like to hear on our wedding day.” 

Their guests laugh. Yang grins, pressing a finger to her lips. “These are my vows or whatever,” she says. “Wait your turn.” 

“Sure.” 

“Anyway,” Yang says, and she can still hear people giggling in their seats. The wind pulls playfully at Blake’s curls, the airy material of her dress billowing with it. “People say that about us all the time - that we’re Hollywood’s ‘happily ever after.’ But I think that’s doing a disservice to us. I think we worked for this, and we made choices, and they weren’t always good ones.” Blake’s riveted to her now, stuck on every word. “So I don’t want us to have to be ‘happily ever after _._ ’ I just want us to be - be the last half of that sentence. ‘Happily,’ I think, is the goal. But we’re allowed to be other things, too. We’re allowed to have bad days, and bad nights, and be in bad moods. We’re allowed to be upset, and cry, and disagree. We aren’t failures for that.” She smiles - a specific turn of her mouth, a secret between them, and tucks Blake’s hair away from her cheekbone. “We’re failures if we don’t try to understand each other. If we give up.” 

“If we run away,” Blake adds on softly. She needs it said, so the both of them know. “If we let go.” 

“Exactly,” Yang murmurs, and now it’s a conversation between the two of them alone, and all of their friends and family may as well not even be in attendance. “So that’s my vow, Blake Belladonna. I’m gonna spend _ever after_ with you, and it’s going to be so much fucking better than anything Hollywood could _ever_ have come up with.” 

Blake doesn’t cry, though several people in the audience do; she can hear their sniffling over the wind, the roar of the sea. Her eyes are glassy and reflect the ocean below them - Yang finds all those skyline sunsets, all those nights glittering in gold. She takes a breath, her lips parting the barest amount.

“Then that’s my vow,” she says, and the wavering note in her voice isn’t due to uncertainty, only an intensity so great it’s nearly impossible to place a name to. Her stare drops to Yang’s gold dress, the sheer long sleeves, the flowing material. Back to her jawline, the bridge of her nose, the lilac of her eyes; the unruly and unrelenting beauty of her. “We won’t live happily ever after, but God, damn - I’m going to make sure we come close.” 

That’s a promise they both keep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you all so much for reading, and thank you for your support. i know this was long, so thanks to everyone who stuck through it to the end <3


End file.
